


The Game of Snakes and Angels

by gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2020-05-20 10:24:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 59
Words: 30,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows
Summary: A place for me to put all my short Aziraphale/Crowley ficlets.





	1. Celestial Stuff

**Author's Note:**

> A collection like this was probably inevitable. 
> 
> If you're over on Tumblr, please consider following me at [gaslightgallows.tumblr.com](https://gaslightgallows.tumblr.com/) for more fic, reblogs about writing, and lots of randomness. 
> 
> I also write original fiction! You can find it at [aflinley.com](https://www.aflinley.com/).
> 
> Thank you for reading and especially for commenting. Comments are love. ♥

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley burns every time Aziraphale touches him. And he’s okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for SeamstressShanked, who asked for “It just… hurts” for Crowley.

Aziraphale kept the talk at the Ritz light, genial, fond, and even funny, and all through the meal, Crowley managed to stay on safe footing with his friend... with his angel. (There was really no point anymore in telling himself that Aziraphale was as anything other than _his_ angel – especially as now Heaven seemed to want nothing to do with him.) He was rather pleased with his conversational wiles; there were some subjects that he was desperate to put off discussing for as long as possible, preferably for ever, and he really, _really_ didn't want to talk about any of them at the Ritz. 

So he let Aziraphale do most of the talking, and most of the eating, while he drank glass after glass of the most expensive champagne the place had to offer, and watched the center of his universe talk pleasantly of everything under the sun, as though the world hadn't just nearly ended. 

As though they both hadn't just nearly been obliterated by their own sides. 

As though they weren't both now alone. 

Almost alone. On their own side.

It wasn't until they were back at the bookshop, with Crowley perched on the battered sofa while Aziraphale took inventory of his restored stock, that he brought up one of the subjects that Crowley had most wanted to avoid. "What was it like?"

Behind his glasses, Crowley grimaced. He'd just been contemplating taking them off, getting a bit more comfortable, but noooo... "What was what like, angel?"

"Your... time in Heaven."

"Well, I mean, it _was_ six thousand years ago, and there's an awful lot of trauma in between then and now—"

"I mean this morning."

"Ah. Right—right! Of course you do, why'd I think you meant anything else?" Crowley sat up and downed the rest of his glass of wine, and absently rubbed at his wrists. "Right."

Aziraphale turned from his stock books (impossibly tattered, with beautifully marbled covers, and interiors with neat copperplate lists of books that seemed to refresh every time one turned a page) with a frown. He looked at Crowley for a moment, taking in the reluctance of his posture and his unwillingness to look up and meet Aziraphale's gaze, and then said, softly, "Was it that bad?"

"Wh... I... well, they tied me up. Lovely white silk cords, scorched like anything. Hid it from Gabriel and the others, of course, but—oh, no, Aziraphale, don't, you don't have to—"

But Aziraphale paid him no mind. He got up and sat beside Crowley on the sofa, taking the wineglass from the demon and setting it aside, and taking his hands, gently turning them palm upward and stroking his fingertips across Crowley's inner wrists with impossible gentleness. 

Crowley stared down at their joined hands, and then gazed at Aziraphale mutely while his angel carefully healed the burns that only they could see. 

"I'm so sorry," Aziraphale was saying, and sounding too contrite for Crowley's liking. "I didn't have any problems with the chains they put on me, so I'd assumed..."

"It's different for me. Celestial stuff... it just... hurts. It's like my body, my _real_ body, remembers was it used to be and—" Aziraphale drew back sharply, and just as suddenly, Crowley grabbed his fingers. "No, don't stop."

Aziraphale's blue eyes were wide with regret. "But, my dear fellow, if I'm hurting you—"

"It burns almost more than the heavenly bonds did, but angel, I wouldn't stop you for the world." 

"'For the world,'" Aziraphale murmured. "Then I should... continue? I've nearly finished."

"Ye... I... oh, bugger all." Crowley jerked his hands away with a snarl and scrubbed his fingers through his already wild hair, setting the dark red strands even more on-end. "Look, Aziraphale, I—"

Whatever he was about to say, his words strangled in his throat (and with much the same sound) when Aziraphale's hands came to rest, fluttering and delicate and convinced, on his cheeks. 

His angel's lips burned more than anything Crowley had ever imagined, but when they parted there was a whisper of a prayer between them.


	2. The 'Nice' One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's plants have a thing or two to say to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t look at me like that.” (whopooh)

There was something... _different_... about the plants. Crowley didn't notice it at first; he was unaccountably distracted in the days following the fizzled-out Apocalypse. Had quite a few other angels, er, _things_  on his mind (and it was really only one angel), and the plants had gotten rather demoted to Number 2 on his list of priorities.

His usual Number 3 item, "Be evil", had been, for the moment, struck off the list entirely.

But the plants, now, what was different?

He prowled around the room he'd converted into his own private conservatory, full of tall lush green things that knew better than to be anything else, and studied them.

"Right, lads," he growled, "who wants to confess first?"

The plants said nothing.

When Crowley had first read about talking to plants back in the seventies, none of the articles had said anything about the plants ever talking back. But then, none of the articles had been written by anyone of current or former celestial stock. There wasn't a living thing on God's Earth that Crowley couldn't make talk to him, if he put his mind to it.

He narrowed his eyes and prowled towards a particularly guilty-looking philodendron. "You? How about you?"

Phil sullenly breathed oxygen at him, in the exact tone of voice of a teenaged boy muttering to his stepfather, "You're not my _real_  dad!" The rest of the plants all rustled menacingly in agreement.

Crowley couldn't believe it. In fact, he was so surprised, he almost blinked. "Why you... disobedient crop of animal fodder. I've tended you with my own hands. Fed you. Misted you. Culled the goats from among the sheep. And this is how you thank me? By threatening mutiny? What've I done to deserve this?"

He half-expected the spirits of all the spotted failures he'd ever turned into compost to rise up out of the concrete floor like chlorophyllic ghosts of Christmas, but the complaints his plants lobbed at him were quite different.

"'Neglected'? What the hell are you playing at? I mean, okay, yes, I haven't been around as much, the last couple of weeks, and I know once or twice I forgot to water you, but--"

He was suddenly bombarded by a slew of corrections, insults and demands, from which rose a single cohesive picture and an inescapable conclusion.

"Oh--oh! So that's it, is it? You want the 'nice' one back! Traitors!" Crowley snarled and turned on his heel. He storming out of the conservatory, dropped the plant mister on the table and grabbed his glasses and jacket.

He was going to go have some words with 'the nice one'.

* * *

"Crowley, I'm sorry, but I fail to see why you're so angry with me over watering your plants. You know it was very hot last week, and with you up there on the top floor, the poor things were practically panting for a drink."

"I don't mind that you _watered_  them, I mind that you turned them against me!"

And so it went, round and round, but Aziraphale was placidly unrepentant and stubbornly refused to understand. "You're being utterly ridiculous. I watered your lovely plants because you'd been asleep for a week straight and they needed it."

"Yes, but you told them that they were lovely!"

"...Yes? Because they are? Really, Crowley, you're acting like I'm trying to lure away their affections."

Crowley gaped at him and then turned away with a growl. "Just for that, I'm gonna start seducing your books away from you, you... tempting angel."

Aziraphale had the graciousness to appear affronted by that.


	3. Fox in the Henhouse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds Crowley's flat in shambles and fears the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I’m lost without you." (clarisimart)

Aziraphale sat in the back of his darkened bookshop. On the table before him were a bottle of whiskey, a single crystal tumbler, and a bent and broken pair of very familiar sunglasses.

He'd found them in Crowley's flat that morning. 

He had gone to look for his friend. They had been meant to meet for lunch the day before, but Crowley hadn't turned up. That wasn't _unusual_ , exactly, but it was... unnerving. And none of his telephone calls were connecting, neither to Crowley's flat number or to his mobile phone. So Aziraphale had gone to the flat. 

He had found complete chaos. 

The few bits of furniture were smashed to bits, the poor plants were ripped and torn and their pots upended and the soil flung all about, and most awful of all, there was blood on the walls and floors. 

Demon blood, black and viscous and every so slightly smoldering, and sooty black, broken feathers, and the fetid stench of unvarnished diabolical presence everywhere. 

It looked, as absurd and terrible as it sounds, like nothing so much as what happens when a very determined dog gets into an unsuspecting house of chickens, and unlike a fox hunting for hunger, decided that a spot of wholesale slaughter was what was in order. 

Aziraphale wasn't physically capable of vomiting, not without the aid of a very specific set of circumstances (usually involving ham, pickles, Crowley's terrible dancing, and a bumpy Channel crossing), but if the mind could wretch and scream, then in that moment, his did both. 

Blindly he had turned to flee, and in doing so, felt something crunch under his foot. He grabbed it up and dropped it into his pocket without thinking, and got the hell out of there.

That same item sat before him now, shattered and twisted, carrying with it the psychic impression of destruction, but mute. It could say nothing. An angel, though, despite his ultimate nature, could weep. 

Aziraphale had never felt so lost in all his life. 

The door of the bookshop opened, and he cursed. "We're closed!" he shouted, his voice cracking. 

"Yeah, figured that out. The locked door kinda gave it away."

"...Crowley?" Aziraphale stood up so fast he knocked over his chair and came round the makeshift wall. "Oh my god."

Crowley's face was bruised and scratched, and he had one arm in a sling, but he held the other arm out. "C'mere, angel. It's been a long day and I could do with some divine comfort."

It hardly took his offer to make Aziraphale cling to his side like a leech, but he was glad Crowley had suggested it first. "I thought... I was at the flat. I saw--and I thought--"

"I know what you thought," Crowley muttered into Aziraphale's hair. "Thought so myself, at first. Had to get away and put myself back together before I came to you. Killed me to do it, though. Could've used you there. I'm lost without you."

Aziraphale's arms tightened around his slim waist. "The feeling is very... very mutual."


	4. Cool Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale spends five of his six thousand years privately hand-wringing over why Crowley hides his eyes behind glasses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Look at me." (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

The trend of wearing glasses had starting during the Roman period, and even at the time, Aziraphale had been put off by them. They certainly suited Crowley's narrow features and often gave him an air of mystery that served him well in his dealings with humans (and in his work as an agent of Hell, which of course Aziraphale disapproved of entirely). 

And really, after knowing Crowley for a thousand years and having to see those slitted yellow snake's eyes that always seemed to him to be sizing him up for a meal, surely the addition of a barrier between his eyes and Aziraphale's everything was at least a small blessing. 

Instead, the angel had felt bizarrely disappointed. 

It was beyond eccentric of him to complain, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, about Crowley's decision to hide a part of himself away. 

He certainly (almost certainly) wasn't doing it for Aziraphale's benefit _or_ for the sake of enjoying his discomfort, but the effect was a peculiar combination of both. 

If Aziraphale couldn't see Crowley's eyes, it didn't really matter on a professional level, because the demon never (almost never) bothered to hide what he was thinking or feeling from his angelic counterpart. He was as open a book as any in the late lamented Library of Alexandria. 

But if Aziraphale was honest with himself, which on the matter of Crowley he was always scrupulously so (this is a lie), he would have been forced to admit that he simply missed seeing his friend's eyes, as he would miss seeing an integral part of an exquisite mosaic. 

If he was willing (he rarely was) to carry his honesty a bit further, he would have also had to concede that he was wont to invite Crowley to his lodgings or his place of business in order to get him just drunk enough to be comfortable tossing his glasses onto a table, for the pleasure of seeing Crowley's glowing yellow eyes. They still looked as hungry and hunting as always, but to Aziraphale's mind now, he felt gazed upon as less of a meal and more as a draught of cool water to a thirsty man. 

It is an angel's nature to be able to sense love of all sorts, but it is also intrinsic for an angel to be a bit settled in their beliefs, so it took Aziraphale altogether too many centuries to realize that that was _precisely_ how Crowley looked at him when he was drunk. And moreover, when he was sober. 

"Crowley," said Aziraphale late one evening, when they were lounging in the bookshop together over some bottles and a stack of Haydn records. "Look at me."

Obligingly, the still mostly-sober and therefore still glasses-wearing demon looked up from his phone. "Hmm?"

"No, no." Aziraphale got up and went to stand beside Crowley. Crowley, who was still sitting down, peered up in some perplexity. "Look at me."

"Look at you, I _am_ looking at you. What--oh," he breathed, as Aziraphale's hands settled on his temples, and the tips of the well-manicured fingers curled around the arms of his sunglasses. 

"Look at me," Aziraphale murmured, "please."

Crowley was so still for so long that Aziraphale worried he'd actually discorporated and left only the shell of his body behind. Then his hands rose and rested on Aziraphale's. "All right."

Very gently, they took off his glasses together, and Crowley gazed up at Aziraphale with eyes unmasked and undimmed by alcohol. 

Slowly, without removing his hands, Aziraphale sank to his knees. He pressed his forehead to Crowley's, and drank in the beauty of his eyes as a thirty man drinks cool water.


	5. Working Holiday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley'd had a bad war. Damn bad war._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I just really miss talking to you.” (rivendellrose)
> 
> This one has a follow-up: [Room at the Inn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19927777)

Crowley'd had a bad war. Damn bad war. 

Not that there were ever any _good_ wars, in his opinion; they ruined the night life and made decent wine impossible to get and killed a lot of people who usually didn't need killing. It made Head Office happy whenever there was a war on, but all they ever saw were the results at the very end. 

They didn't have to live through them. Crowley did. 

He wasn't sure how he'd ended up in the trenches in France, or how he'd gotten out. He only knew that he wanted to spend the next decade or so getting absolutely shitfaced in the hopes that he would forget everything that happened in between "ending up in the trenches" and "getting out in one piece". 

He got Hell to give him a working holiday on the grounds of needing to "study" all the new illicit drugs and cocktails that were flooding London's nightclubs, and immersed himself in forgetting. 

And he did such a good job of it that it was 1928 before he considered drying out. 

He found himself on a bench in St. James' Park, early one morning, hungover and shivering in the October chill, his head throbbing like a pustulant sore and his stomach twisting into unbelievable knots. There were few other people in the park at that hour, and surprisingly, none of them seemed to see the unshaven, disheveled Bright Young Thing apparently abandoned on the bench. 

There were ducks on the water, Crowley noticed, and wondered why he should care. 

"Do ducks have ears?" he muttered to himself. "They must do. 'S how they hear other ducks."

Ducks. Water. Holy water. Angels. 

"Angel," he gasped, and curled up on the bench. Black tears streaked down his thin face, and he closed his eyes and just cried. 

When he opened his eyes, he was no longer in the park. Nor had he been picked up by the police and carted off to a cell to sober up, as had occasionally happened when he'd been too sozzled to be vigilent. Instead, he was lying on a leather sofa in a dimly-lit room that looked like a library. A soft knitted afghan had been tenderly tucked around him. 

Crowley sat up slowly, scenting his surroundings. He was assaulted by familiar smells, dust and paper and ink, tea and cocoa, and an unmistakable hint of celestial incense. He frowned, and to his surprise, started to shake. "A-aziraphale?"

A bespectacled blond head peered around the corner, and after a moment, the rest of him followed. "Hello, my dear," the angel murmured. He brushed Crowley's unruly red hair back from his forehead, and Crowley couldn't help pressing against his palm for a moment. "How do you feel?"

"Uh... confused, mostly. Did you just randomly happen to find me sleeping rough on a park bench?"

"You might say that." Aziraphale smiled faintly. "I walk by that bench at least twice a day."

"Why?"

"We met there so often for so long that I... well. I suppose I've just missed talking with you."


	6. Cognizance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale doesn't know what happened, only that Crowley is taking care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You’re scared, you must have seen something.” (Cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

Aziraphale barely reacted as he was pushed gently into his desk chair and draped in an old wool blanket, and responded with a nearly inaudible "Mmm" to Crowley's, "I'm gonna make you a drink, will you be okay for a few minutes?"

While Crowley ducked into the small kitchenette off the back room, Aziraphale reached up mechanically and tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders. He felt so very cold...

He couldn't put what he had experienced into words. Not yet. He wasn't even sure he could put it into thoughts. He only knew that he and Crowley had been walking back from a rather charming new bijou little restaurant, and trying not to be too obvious about holding hands, when something... happened. 

And the more he tried to pin down precisely what, the more vague and terrifying the event became. 

Perhaps it was best simply not to think of it yet.

Crowley returned with a wing-handled mug, which he pressed into Aziraphale's unsteady hands, helping to fold his stiff fingers around the white porcelain. "Thank you," Aziraphale murmured, very softly, not quite trusting his voice yet. "I'm sorry, I know I gave you a fright..."

"Never mind about me, what happened to _you_?" Crowley crouched down beside Aziraphale's chair. "You're still shaking."

"Yes... shock, I suppose. One of the drawbacks of a corporeal form. All those pesky hormones and neurotransmitters..."

"Aziraphale." Crowley curled his fingers around the angel's forearm, squeezing just a little. "You're scared. You must've seen _something_."

"I... didn't."

"You did."

"I didn't. I _didn't_."

"...Well, something scared the absolute heaven out of you."

The standard demon epithet brought a ghost of a smile to Aziraphale's pale face. "Not quite that bad, my dear, I assure you." He shifted his mug of cocoa to one hand and touched the other to Crowley's cheek, stroking his cool skin lightly with the ball of his thumb. "I'm fine."

"You're not."

"Well, perhaps not fine. Not yet. But safe. I'm in my own home, I've got cocoa, you're here..."

Crowley covered Aziraphale's hand with his own and laced their fingers together tightly. 

Neither of them said anything for some minutes. Then Aziraphale swallowed, took a sip of his cooling cocoa, and swallowed again. "Something.. passed in front of my eyes. But I don't know what - I didn't actually _see_ anything. It was more of a cognizance of a presence, I suppose. And it passed through my bones, straight to my ethereal heart, and then it... kept going. And then I-I'm not sure what happened."

"You dropped to the pavement," said Crowley. "I had to carry you back here."

"Oh," said Aziraphale, very softly. 

"Sorry about that."

"No, no. I'm sorry I missed it."

He felt Crowley's face go warm under his hand, and bent to press his lips to Crowley's forehead. "I'm alright, you know. Just... shaken."

Crowley's yellow eyes glowed with feeling, but all he said, taking Aziraphale's hand as he rose to his feet, was "Come on, angel. Let's get you to bed."


	7. Empty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief follow-up to the destruction of the church during the Blitz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It’s too dark; I can’t see anything.” (Meldanya44)

Aziraphale clapped his hat onto his head, grasped the handle of the Gladstone bag containing his precious books firmly in his hand, and hurried to follow Crowley through the rubble of the church. With the building destroyed and the blackout still in full effect, the only light to see by was from the small fires started by the bombs.

"Crowley," he gasped, stumbling awkwardly over a chunk of pillar. "Crowley, wait."

The demon in the dark suit paused his long stride, though Aziraphale only knew that from the sound of crunching under his feet falling silent. "Hmm?"

"I--" Aziraphale stopped to catch his breath and to give his racing heart a chance to slow down. He could still feel Crowley's hand on his as he handed over the bag, and the sudden shock, not merely from the contact but from the thundercrack of emotion that had come with it, was making it hard to focus. "I need you to slow down."

"'Slow down,'" Crowley repeated, with a hint of something Aziraphale could only call incredulity. "In what universe am I moving too fast for you?"

"In this one. It's too dark; I can't see anything."

"So? Make a light. 'S what angels do, after all."

"I can't!"

"What's the matter, angel? Get another nasty note from head office about too many miracles, did you?"

"No," snapped Aziraphale. "No, I'm -- well, there's no getting around it. I'm empty."

"Empty?" 

"Yes, empty."

"What, you mean you're out of miracles?"

"For the moment, yes! Which means I'm also effectively blind, so could you please slow down? I can't see you."

A loud, disgusted groan, and then the crunching footsteps began again, except this time, they were coming towards Aziraphale. "I can't believe they've left you down here by yourself for so long. No more sense than a duck, I swear." A large, cool hand fastened around Aziraphale's upper arm and hauled him to his feet. "Come on, then. Good thing one of us can see in the dark."

They didn't speak again until they reached the Bentley, parked a safe distance away from the church and as unscathed as always. "How'd you drain yourself so thoroughly?" Crowley asked, when they were safe inside the car, and making their slow way back to Soho. "Just by keeping us from being blown to bits?"

"Partly. There was also the font to consider."

In the meagre light from the headlights, which really ought not to have been on in the first place, Aziraphale saw Crowley frown. "The... font, the font of holy water?"

"Yes. Keeping us both from being crushed, burned, or otherwise killed via explosion was fairly simple. Keeping you from being immersed by a wave of super-heated holy water, well, that took a bit more of an effort. Quite a lot more, actually. I must say, I'm rather proud of myself for that," Aziraphale added, trying to lighten the moment. But there was a hitch in his voice that didn't bear examining. 

"...Ah. Right. Um... thank--"

"Oh, shut up," Aziraphale muttered, turning away, and was surprised to find that he was crying.


	8. Private Sensations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale prefers to enjoy himself in private... with one notable exception.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You feel like home to me.” (Timetravelbypen)

Aziraphale liked his solitude. His nature was more towards the cloister than the pulpit, as it were, and his favorite pastimes of reading, fine dining, and delightful music were, by definition, solitary. Of course, one might share a good book or a good dinner or a good concert with someone else, in the sense of occupying the same table or relating impressions regarding a new novel, but the experience was ultimately one of private sensations. 

And he liked it that way. 

And it really rather irritated him when one of his superiors decided that the best time to interrupt him for an update or a status report was when he was curled up with a nice juicy gothic romance or when the curtain at Her Majesty's Theatre was about to go up on the second act. (Or when he was in the bath, but thankfully _that_ hadn't happened since indoor plumbing became widespread.)

It hardly mattered that he'd read the book and seen the performance countless times (he could have counted them, if he'd tried, but that would have been very embarrassing). He liked trying new things, of course, but he was an angel, after all, and he tended to become set in his ways. And things disappeared so quickly, it was too much of a temptation not to see and hear and taste them as often and as deeply as possible. The _experience_ of seeing something familiar again and again was unlike anything else: thrilling and exciting, but because of their familiarity, safe. 

He knew what was going to happen. It was comforting, like coming home after a long day and sinking into a favorite corner of the sofa (because there was someone else comforting and familiar sprawled across the other corner).

And it made the anticipation into the most exquisite type of pleasure that he could--

"Sorry I'm late," Crowley said, sliding into the seat opposite him in the booth at Aziraphale's favorite little Italian restaurant. "Got caught up with something."

"Business?"

"Nah, traffic."

"You've only yourself to blame for that."

Crowley frowned at him as he poured out the wine. "You're in a bit of a mood tonight. You alright?"

"Gabriel dropped by, just before you turned up." Crowley made a face of displeased sympathy that Aziraphale deeply appreciated. "Wanted an update, criticized my affinity for 'gross matter' yet again, and said some rather unkind things about my waistcoat."

"Nrgh. Tosser." 

"Oh, quite." Aziraphale picked up his fork again, but merely nudged the pasta around his plate. "It puts me off my food to be interrupted like that."

"An' I know how much it takes to put you off your grub." Crowley put his elbows on the table and considered Aziraphale for a moment. "You want me to leave? Give you some privacy, let you get yourself back together?"

Aziraphale looked up sharply. "Good lord, no! That's the last thing I want! I mean," he hedged, when Crowley cocked his head at him like a confused corvid, "that is to say, _you've_ never upset my appetite."

"Well, there was that one time, in Iceland..."

"I thought we agreed never to mention that again." And Aziraphale shuddered delicately. "My appreciation for ammoniated foods only goes so far, you know."

Crowley grinned and saluted him with his wine glass, and settled in to watch Aziraphale enjoy himself.


	9. Slithery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Snuggly boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry, what was that? I didn’t hear you.” (xandwyrms)

"You know," said Aziraphale, his voice low and drowsy, "I really wasn't sure how this whole cottage idea was going to work out, but so far it seems to be going swimmingly."

Crowley said nothing. 

"I mean, neither of us are really what you might call 'country' people. Personally, I was delighted when the Mesopotamians got round to inventing cities, and I've never really looked back since."

Crowley continued to say nothing. 

"We both like our night life and our restaurants and our entertainment, and there really isn't any of that here, but... it's been wonderful, just you and I. Walking, swimming, picnicking... sitting in the garden... Crowley, are you asleep?"

"Hmm? Sorry, what was that? Were you saying something? Can't hear you, your arm's over my ear."

"Oh! Sorry!" Aziraphale hastily shifted his arm down to around the vicinity of Crowley's ribs. "Still getting used to the mathematics of this."

"What, of sharing a bed with someone?"

"Yes. And with you, specifically. You're very slithery." He nuzzled his nose into Crowley's hair. "I never know where you're going to be next."

"Mmm." Crowley snuggled back more firmly against Aziraphale's chest and stomach. "Perils of getting into bed with a snake. We like to be comfortable."

"And... do you like this? Having someplace to just... be?"

"Angel." There was a delicious soft warmth in Crowley's voice, that he only ever brought out for Aziraphale. He reached for Aziraphale's hand and pulled his arm tighter around his middle, and then half-buried his face in the pillow so that his next words were muffled. 

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Aziraphale teased. "I don't think I heard you."

Crowley whined and curled into a tighter ball, which of course molded Aziraphale even more snugly against his back. Finally, he gave in. "I _said_ , you've always been my place to be."

“Thank you, my dear,” said Aziraphale, dropping a light kiss to the nape of Crowley’s neck. “I thought that’s what I heard.”


	10. Mortal Doings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After an averted execution, some crepes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I've missed your smell." (Meldanya44)

Crowley leaned his elegantly clad elbows on the table and watched as Aziraphale happily devoured his plate of crepes (at least Crowley assumed that they were crepes; he'd never heard of the silly things himself, but the angel had said crepes for lunch and there they were having lunch, so he assumed they were crepes). Occasionally he picked at his own helping, just so he could know what the thin little circles with their various fillings tasted like, but he knew from experience that his friend would be finishing his portion before they left their table. 

If the proprietor of the brasserie had been permitted to notice him, he probably would have thought it odd that an aristo in dark glasses was lunching with one of the sans-culottes, but that good hardworking man was busy with his bake ovens and not paying too much attention, which was all to Crowley's benefit. A little subtle nudging on his part was all that was needed to ensure privacy for him and Aziraphale. 

"So?" he asked, when the angel had cleaned his plate, Crowley's plate, and the serving platter. "Worth nearly getting discorporated for?"

"Not quite," Aziraphale had to admit, "but nearly. What did you think of them?"

Crowley lifted his wine glass to his lips. "Not bad. I liked the cream ones. Could've done without the asparagus ones, though."

"Well, I thought they were delightful."

"I noticed," Crowley grinned. 

Aziraphale smiled, only a little embarrassed by his own appetite. "It's been a few years since we crossed paths – what've you been up to?"

"Oh, not much." Crowley leaned his chair back, balancing on the back two legs as he considered. "Checking in on various uprisings here and there... Greece and Turkey are probably going to be following this lot in a decade or two. Faffed about in Germany for a few years – lots of fun stuff going on there. Ducked into Italy for a bit and then headed back to England to see how your bookshop was getting on. And imagine my surprise—" His chair came down with a thump. "—when I got to your London digs and found that you'd buggered off across the Channel in white silk brocade for some haute cuisine."

"You wanted to see the bookshop?" An expression of shy delight bloomed across Aziraphale's face like a rising sun. "My dear fellow, that's frightfully good of you. I had no idea you took such an interest in my mortal doings."

Crowley waved a negligent hand. "Ehh, it's not really 'interest'. More familiarity. Like..." He groped for a comparison the angel would understand. "Like walking into a church and not smelling the incense. Nothin' really wrong with the building but it smells wrong, _feels_ wrong. Made me all jumpy, missing your smell. Besides," he added, pouring more wine into his own, already mostly-full glass, "it's no good me leaving you on your own for too long. You get into trouble without me about. Worse, you do too many good deeds. Makes me look bad."

"And that would never do," Aziraphale agreed. "I've missed you, too."

Crowley choked on his wine. "S-sorry?"

"Yes. It gets rather tedious, doing all those lovely miracles and having no evil demonic deeds as a background for them to shine against." The angel heaved a very broad sigh. "I suppose you'll just have to come back to London with me."

"Oh no," said Crowley, leaning comfortably back on his chair again. "However will I withstand the burden?"


	11. Them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's an unwelcome presence in the bookshop. Crowley's worried it might be him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I never said I could hear them.” (Cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

He noticed it coming on gradually, a sort of low, slow creep, every time he visited Aziraphale at the bookshop. Crowley wasn't entirely sure what the feeling signified – it was definitely angelic in origin, which naturally made his whole diabolical self feel all-overish and queasy... except it was also Aziraphale-ic in origin, and after six thousand years and countless evenings spent in the shop, he ought to have been used to baseline Aziraphale Brand Angelic Aura.

But as the weeks went by and he spent more time at the shop, sometimes wasting days draped over the old worn leather sofa, listening to classical music, smelling the dust of books and paper and hundred-year-old coats, the sour feeling in the pit of his stomach only seemed to grow.

And the more his skin crawled, he noticed, the more unsettled and jumpy Aziraphale became.

“Look,” he said finally, “what’s going on?”

“Hmm? Nothing. Why should anything be going on?”

Crowley swung his long legs from off the arm of the sofa and sat up. “Come on. You only ever answer a question with a question when you’re specifically trying to avoid answering a question.”

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he worked through that one. Then, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“This bookshop is positively vibrating with ethereal protective measures.”

“Well, naturally. I’ve lived here for over two hundred years.”

“Yes, and I’ve been visiting you here for most of those two hundred years. Never felt anything this strong before. It’s positively unwelcoming.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, rather hurt. “My dear fellow, I never intended—”

“And it keeps getting worse! Look, are you trying to keep me out or something?”

The way he said it was light and unconcerned, only mildly curious, but they both knew it was anything but, and Aziraphale dealt with it at once. “Of course not,” he said firmly, and proved it by moving from his desk chair to Crowley’s side and kissing him firmly. 

“I-wuh… yuh… good,” Crowley muttered, a fantastic blush spreading over his cheekbones. “Good, good. Glad to hear it.” He ducked his head to get away from the soft light in Aziraphale’s eyes. “So, uh… what’s, what’s with the…” He flapped his hands weakly at their surroundings. “The everything.”

Aziraphale gulped. “It’s… them.” 

“…‘Them’?” For a second, Crowley imagined Adam Young and his pack of troublemakers, hiding amongst the stacks. 

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes flickered upwards. “Them.”

Oh. Well that put rather a different spin on things. “You sure?”

“Positive. They’re here, watching. Listening. Whispering to each other.”

Crowley bounded to his feet and began prowling the darkened shop. “How often do you hear them?”

“I never said I could hear them.”

“But you—”

“I _know_ they’re there, I can sense them!”

“Are you sure you’re not just being paranoid? Not that I blame you, I’ve been after you to develop a little healthy paranoia for ages.”

“I don’t like being spied on!” Aziraphale snapped.

“I know, but this isn’t _new_. They’ve been spying on us for years. Got a whole dossier on the Arrangement, you said.”

“Yes, but at least before, they were subtle about how they got their information. Now, they’re… not.” 

Crowley looked at the dejected, distracted center of his universe, picking absently at the buttons of his cuffs, and felt suddenly in the way. “I never wanted to make things harder for you, angel.”

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, with a little huff of a laugh. “It’s a bit late for regrets at this date.”

“Yeah, but at least before, you could pretend. You still had a way to hide. Now—”

“Oh, do shut up, Crowley. I won’t have you taking more than your fair share of the blame.” He smiled slightly. “It reeks of hubris.”

“Ah, well, what’s a good old-fashioned deadly sin to a demon?” Crowley hesitated. “Aziraphale, I—”

“I was hiding before,” said Aziraphale, with quiet determination, “because I was afraid. Fear isn’t an issue now. We don’t have anything to hide.”

Crowley snorted softly. “Nothing that both bosses don’t already know about anyway.” _And we’ll still have to answer for that, one of these days._ But he kept that thought to himself.

“But I that doesn’t mean I want our… relationship… reported on back at the head office.”

Privately, Crowley agreed, and began plotting ways to counter the efforts of the angelic spies. Aziraphale was used to him now, so a little hellish protection in addition to the heavenly efforts wouldn’t bother him, and would make Crowley feel more comfortable, _and_ would go some ways towards evicting the shop’s unwelcome freeloaders. 

Aloud, though, what he said was, “I dunno, the more sordid details are very entertaining.” 

And he laughed at Aziraphale’s scandalized expression.


	12. Protein

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has very specific requirements before he'll let Crowley kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Blood has such a metallic taste.” (timetravelbypen)

“No. No, absolutely not.”

Crowley stared at him. “Wha…? It’s just a kiss, Aziraphale, ‘s not like I’m asking you to screw with the curtains open. Am I suddenly a plague vector or something?”

“Not until you’ve brushed your teeth.”

“…Excuse me?”

“And gargled.” Aziraphale jerked his head at the tiny kitchenette just off the back room. “Get on with you.”

“Aziraphale—”

“Or you’re sleeping alone tonight, dear.”

With a snarl, Crowley went.

Beside the scrupulously clean sink, he found a brand-new toothbrush, a virgin tube of toothpaste, and an unopened bottle of mouthwash. 

He stared at the accoutrements in disgust, practically willing them to combust, but they stubbornly persisted in existing, and finally he gave up and accepted his fate.

“Should’ve known,” he muttered, viciously unscrewing the cap from the tube. “Did know, should’ve guessed…”

Crowley was not what you could call a big eater, unlike his angel. 

It wasn’t that he _disliked_ eating, exactly, but he did have to be in a very specific mood that really only struck him once every century or so. If pressed by Aziraphale, he would try something new, and he tended to like most foodstuffs he put in his mouth, though why the English insisted on ruined perfectly good lamb with the abomination that was mint sauce, he had no idea. 

The fact that Crowley was responsible for the popularization of mint sauce is beside the point. 

Aziraphale, on the other hand, was not only a big eater, but he was also in some respects a picky eater, particularly in the matter of proteins. He’d never really mentioned it, but it was the sort of thing you noticed, after hanging around him forever. 

And he’d been rather sheepish, the one time that Crowley had pointed it out.

“Blood has such a metallic taste,” he’d said, and gone on with his salmon.

Fish, eggs, dairy. That was it. Poultry occasionally, game when he had to, goat or lamb under _very_ specific circumstances. But he didn’t care for beef and he absolutely hated pork, which had made him so much fun at house parties back under the reign of the various Georges. 

And probably during Victoria’s day as well, but Crowley had slept through most of that. The Napoleonic Wars had been exhausting.

But although Crowley was not as enthralled by eating as Aziraphale was, but he did occasionally like a big expensive meal. He also occasionally liked a really cheap greasy burger loaded with bacon. 

Which is why Aziraphale had banished him to this small private hell of tooth cleaning.

It made Crowley rue the day he had inspired the invention of mint-flavoured dental hygiene products. 

“All right,” he moaned, wiping foam from his lips as he strolled back into the shop, pouting prettily. “I’ve done my penance, angel, now come here and get this taste out of my mouth.”

Aziraphale generously obliged him, and Crowley had to admit that brushing his teeth was a small price to pay, because his angel was astonishingly good at this. 

“Really, Crowley. Hamburg steak and bacon! What possessed you to eat _that_ , of all things?”

“I was out seeing a movie with Adam and grabbed a burger after to keep the kid company while he ate. And don’t look at me like that! If I was going to lie to you, I’d make it a more plausible one than that. He wouldn’t eat alone. Said it wasn’t friendly. “Not ‘rude’, not ‘not nice’. Friendly. How was I supposed to say no?”

Aziraphale didn’t bother hiding his smile. “Of course, dear.”


	13. Under the Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After giving Crowley the holy water, Aziraphale has to face what he's done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It hurts. It hurts so much.” (Creveli)

Aziraphale walked home slowly. The garish neon lights of the shops and the wild music emanating from the clubs made a sharp contrast to his demeanor. Had anyone been looking, they would have seen a man with an expression of numb devastation, someone who knows his world has just ended but for whom it hasn’t quite sunk in yet.

He was quite certain he would never see Crowley again. 

He had held out for as long as possible against his friend’s suicidal request for holy water, hoping against hope that Crowley would forget, that he would not be tempted to give in to despair, that the Arrangement would be enough to keep him going.

_Why? Why? Why is he… Why… It... it hurts._

That Aziraphale would be enough.

_Why did I…? Oh, why. I love him. And it hurts… so much._

Well. So much for hope. Vain, foolish hope.

At last, the bookshop was within view, a marvelously anachronistic old lady rubbing shoulders companionably with her smart young counterparts. A.Z. Fell’s was an institution in the neighborhood, and he’d always been rather proud of that. He was a landmark, part of the background noise of Soho, not so much noticed as sensed under the skin. Most of the regular passersby on the street never even saw the shop, not really. But they’d know immediately if it was gone one day.

Aziraphale wondered if he would know when…

He shied away from the thought as though burned and hurried into the darkened shop.

Immediately he was enveloped by familiar, comfortable scents: paper, dust, old leather bindings. Tea, cocoa, coffee, wine. Homemade shortbread and fancy chocolates. Other smells, less obvious to the occasional customer – sulfur, cinnamon, an odd sort of faint musk that somehow struck one as rather reptilian.

In the rare instances when a human did notice, they assumed it was cologne.

Crowley’s scent stubbornly persisted in the shop, even though he had not stepped through the door in twenty years. Not since the war, and the church bombing. The night Crowley had saved his books from destruction and himself from a great deal of tedious paperwork and probably a severe reprimand from Gabriel…

The night Aziraphale had been forced to stop deluding himself.

It was too much. He went into the back, where the scent was strongest, and curled up on the sofa and cried, mourning for the friend he would soon lose and the love he couldn’t help.


	14. Standards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's planning to hide something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t need to cover up the bruises.” (Cigaretteburnslikefairylights)
> 
> I actually have two requests for this prompt but the second is still in-progress.

There was something odd in Crowley’s bathroom. Something different. And for a good few seconds, he stood in the soft florescent light and stared blearily at the black veined marble vanity, trying to figure out what it was. 

He stared a bit longer while he used the facilities (it was necessary, occasionally, especially when he’d gone to sleep without bothering to sober up first), and by the time he’d finished, he’d woken up a bit more and realized what the unfamiliar thing was. 

“Angel,” he said, discarding his dressing gown and slipping back under the covers, “what d’you have concealer makeup for?”

Aziraphale didn’t look up from his book, but the cheekbones below the prim spectacles took on a decidedly pink tinge. “Oh, just in case. One never knows when one will want such things.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and played dirty pool: he snuggled up right against Aziraphale’s side and put his arms around the angel’s soft torso. When that didn’t work, he squeezed, just a little, and pressed a kiss against Aziraphale’s ribs. 

“Oh... fine.” Aziraphale sighed. “Madame Tracy gave it to me.”

“What for?”

“I asked her for advice about... covering...” He wormed his left arm out of Crowley’s grasp and gestured to his neck, which was sporting one or two very obvious marks. “She’s experienced in how to manage such things.”

“I don’t wonder at that. But you don’t need to cover up the bruises. Why not just miracle them away?”

“Because,” said Aziraphale, with a bit of an edge that surprised Crowley, “I don’t want them to go away. You... well, you put them there.”

Crowley smiled softly. “Yes, yes, I did. You didn’t seem to mind.”

“I don’t mind at all. But that doesn’t mean I want them commented upon.” Aziraphale primly turned a page in his book. “After all, I have professional standards to maintain.”

“Of course,” said Crowley, grinning like a lunatic. He gently took the book from Aziraphale’s hands and proceeded to impugn his professional standards just a little more.


	15. Self-Preservation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel and Beelzebub have a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Beelzebub and Gabriel in St. James Park.” (meldanya44)

An angel and a demon sat on a bench in St. James’ Park. The bench was used to the occurrence, though not to this particular angel and demon.

They brought no bread for the ducks, not knowing it was customary and not much caring. The ducks were annoyed, but kept their grumbling to themselves.

Even ducks sometimes have a sense of self-preservation.

“This is a disaster,” Beelzebub said gloomily.

Gabriel had to agree with that. “No Antichrist, no end of the world, no war... no answers.”

“And a rogue demon and angel who might not even be that anymore. My lot’s been absolutely unmanageable since word got out. And don’t even get me started on Lucifer.”

“We’re having some trouble as well. And I got called up to the top floor.”

His normally hearty demeanor was subdued and almost nervous. Beelzebub looked at their counterpart in surprise. “What happened?”

“I got told off.”

“You _what_?”

“I received an official reprimand for my...” Gabriel’s voice dropped somewhere down past a whisper. “Arrogance.”

Under normal circumstances, Beelzebub would have laughed. As things were, though, that was the last thing on their mind.

“What if they were right? Crowley and Aziraphale. About the Ineffable Plan? What if we’ve been going about this all wrong?”

“Looks that way,” said Gabriel.

“So... what are we supposed to do now?”

Gabriel shook his head slowly. “I have no idea.”


	16. Pears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley decide on a cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Write about trees?” (sparrowsaurus)

With Aziraphale’s back turned, Crowley looked at the estate agent, who realized abruptly that she had an important phone call to make and hurried outside. Crowley promptly wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s waist.

“This one,” he said, his sharp chin resting on Aziraphale’s waist.

“This one? Really?” With some difficulty, Aziraphale turned around to face him. “Are you sure? We’ve got five more possible properties to look at.”

“I want this one, angel.”

“But... my dear fellow, why? It’s so poky and disjointed, and the roof is a nightmare.” Aziraphale looked around the drab cottage’s kitchen, and considered with more than a mere five senses. “Although the bones of the house are quite good, and the study’s rather adorable, I could do a lot with it. And we could always add on another bedroom, I suppose...” He saw Crowley’s smile widening. “It has _potential_ , I will admit that. But why are you so set on this on, all of a sudden.”

Crowley pointed out the window over the sink.

Aziraphale looked, and then together, they made their way out the back of the house, into the summer heat and into a shabby and much-neglected walled garden.

Not just a garden, he realized after a moment, but an _orchard_ , with untrimmed trees hugging the circular stone wall and dropping their fruits onto the ground.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, blinking. He took a deep breath, inhaling the myriads scents and possibilities of the place. “Oh yes. Oh, _yes_ , you’re absolutely right. This one.”

Crowley stooped and plucked a pear from one of the trees. It was ripe the moment it touched his hand; he polished it briefly on his jacket sleeve and held it out to Aziraphale.


	17. Menacing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An angel and a demon play poker. Well, try to play poker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley playing cards (aka Aziraphale cheats but won’t admit that’s what he’s doing lmao) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

The only thing Aziraphale was worse at than sleight of hand, Crowley thought, with a mixture of irritation and fondness, was cheating at cards. “It was up your sleeve.”

“It was not!”

“It was under the table and then it was up your sleeve.”

“You are absolutely no fun at all,” Aziraphale grumbled. “I don’t know why I invite you over for friendly games, you only come here to drink my wine and complain about things.” He gathered the cards from the table and then promptly dropped them all. “Oh, bother!”

Crowley kept his mouth shut while Aziraphale reclaimed all the cards, and kept himself busy by neatly stacking all of the chips in preparation for the next hand.

Aziraphale’s voice came from somewhere at knee-level. “Have you seen the ace of spades, my dear? It seems to have wandered off.”

“Check under the table.”

“You are an incorrigible personage.” A pair of blue eyes appeared over the edge of the table, looking at him accusingly. “And anyway, it’s not here.”

Crowley reached down and helped him to his feet. “I hope you’ve never tried that trick in an actual poker game,” he said, leaning back in his chair as Aziraphale dusted off the knees of his trousers and resumed his own seat. “You’d’ve gotten the heaven kicked right out of you.”

“Well,” Aziraphale hedged, “there were one or two occasions...”

The chair came down with a disagreeable thump. “You got beaten up by gamblers?” His voice said very plainly that if the answer was ‘Yes’, then Crowley was going to track them down and make them extremely sorry for what they’d done, and he didn’t much care of they were alive or dead already.

“Oh no, not beaten up. There might have been some mild menacing, but that was all.” Aziraphale straightened the pack and shuffled it with brisk efficiency. “They all decided to go home and rethink their lives before inflicting any injuries upon my person. Or upon anyone else’s person, for that matter.”

“You are a ruthless bastard when you have to be, you know.”

Aziraphale did his best to look affronted, but only succeeded in looking pleased.

Crowley grinned, leaned forward, and plucked the missing ace of spades from Aziraphale’s breast pocket. “But you’re still a damn lousy card cheat.”


	18. Obedience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley has a lot of very old hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You don’t need to cover up the bruises.” (Scorpling)

Aziraphale saw the shaking black form on the floor of the shop and immediately pulled the shade down again. "Crowley? What's happened?"

The demon on the carpet groaned something that was possibly rude and curled into a more compact lump. 

Well. That wasn't good. Aziraphale went and knelt beside him, unsure of what he could do. "Crowley. If you're hurt, I need you to tell me."

"Old hurts..." Crowley looked up in anguish; to Aziraphale's horror, his sunglasses were nowhere to be found and his eyes were leaking black demon blood. "Come back to haunt me."

With no small amount of difficulty and swearing from both of them, Aziraphale managed to haul him into the back, where he could at least lie down on something soft and drink the various liquids pressed into his hands. 

"Devil's bargain," he said simply, when first water and then whiskey had done their work. "When we fell, we were in agony. Lucifer hid that pain away, hid all the burns and the broken bones. But the price was obedience."

"And now you've gone back on the bargain. Ah."

"It's getting harder to fight... Dunno how much longer I can keep it all undercover. Not that anyone else will ever see it. S' not like the humans see much, anyhow, but..."

Aziraphale gently removed the glass from Crowley's hand, and just as gently, laced their fingers together. "You don't need to hide from me, Crowley," he said softly. "Not unless you want to."

"It's not pretty, angel. The real me."

That made something inside Aziraphale twist with surprise bitter force. "When has anything real about either of us ever been a pleasure to behold?"

Crowley nodded once, and then, he sort of sighed with his whole body, and changed. 

It wasn't precisely his true form. Not quite. The shop and possibly London would not have been able to contain even one of their true metaphysical bodies, let alone two of them. But it was close enough to the soot-winged being who had stood beside him on the eastern wall of Eden, six thousand years before, that Aziraphale recognized him easily. 

He would know Crowley anywhere, in any form, even this twisted, hunched mass that had once been an angel among the stars, the face half-hidden behind tangled knots of rust-red hair, and his serpent's eyes peering out sadly. 

"Oh," Aziraphale breathed, clutching Crowley's hand harder without thinking, until the demon whimpered. "Oh, my dear fellow, I..."

With a touch as light as the feathers on his own still-luxuriant wings, Aziraphale brushed back the coils of hair and laid his hands tenderly on Crowley's ruined face. 

"You can't fix this, angel. Six thousand years of sins, and more. You can't fix it."

"I'm not trying to," Aziraphale said, his fingers gentle and soft, tracing the lines of thousands of scars, while Crowley trembled under the angel's love.


	19. Cake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale accepts a dinner invitation without consulting Crowley first... and regrets it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Aw, I love the sound of music.” (Timetravelbypen)

"What do you _mean_ , we're having supper with the Youngs tonight?"

"Deirdre called while you were working in the garden and invited us to dinner, so I said yes."

"For both of us?" Crowley stared at him in dismay. "I was just outside, you could've shouted through the window!"

"You don't have to come, you know," Aziraphale chided, straightening his tie. "If you're that set against being sociable."

"I'm mostly confused about why you told Deirdre we'd come. We had plans for tonight, didn't we?"

"...No, not that I'm aware of."

"We were going to drink wine and watch The Good Place!"

"Crowley, we do that most nights."

"And? Besides, you loathe Deirdre Young's cooking."

"Her cooking, yes. Her baking, on the other hand..."

Crowley's irritation melted slightly. "Oh, I see. It's the cake you care about."

"And seeing our friends!"

"Whatever you say." Crowley reached out and smoothed his hands over the backs of Aziraphale's shoulders, smoothing out his jacket. "Well, don't say I didn't warn you."

It wasn't until after supper (mediocre) was finished and the various examples of Deirdre's pastry prowess were appearing that he realized he ought to have taken that literally. 

"Mum, look," said Adam, flipping through channels on the TV when he should have been washing the supper dishes, "'The Sound of Music' is on."

Aziraphale felt his blood (such as it was) run cold. 

"Oh, wonderful! I love 'The Sound of Music'!" She looked at their guests. "Do you mind?"

Aziraphale started to open his mouth to protest, but Crowley was too fast. "Not at all! We just _love_ that musical!"

The grin on his face was, appropriately, demonic. 

"You are sleeping on the sofa tonight," Aziraphale muttered, trying to focus on the chocolate gateau and to not allow 'My Favorite Things' to become inescapably lodged in his brain. 

"Why? You don't use the bed."

"I am using it _tonight_ , and I will be using it _alone_ , thank you very much."

Crowley laughed silently into his coffee. "Worth it."


	20. Id

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up to a very nice surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What are you doing in my bed?"  
> (meldanya)

Crowley didn't really have a subconscious. The way Freud told it, demons were all id, with a little sprinkling of ego (depending on the demon) and nary a drop of superego in sight. So there wasn't much in the way of repression going on with him, and consequently, not much need for the brain portion of his corporation to waste valuable energy in dreaming.

Hence his surprise at waking up early one morning and finding a soft fluffy angel cuddled against his chest. Crowley was so surprised, in fact, that he blinked. 

"Aziraphale?"

"Hmm?"

"What are you doing in my bed?"

"I can come up with a very plausible reason, if you really need it." 

Crowley waited. "But?"

"But I just want to hold you." 

"You're doing that, right enough. Can barely move." He smiled down at the top of Aziraphale's head. "Grip like that'd do a snake proud." 

"You don't mind?"

"No, angel, I don't. But next time--"

Aziraphale looked up, eyes wide with hope. "Yes? Next time? Or, well, now?"

"Now it is, then," said Crowley, and kissed him.


	21. My Best Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale finds Crowley a bit... tied up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “That’s very kind of you, but I need him in one piece for the foreseeable future!” (xandwyrms)

Aziraphale rounded the bend in the forest and was greeted by a very bizarre sight: Crowley, gagged with what looked like an oven cloth, tied to a tree, around which was piled… kindling. 

“Um… hello.”

Brian looked up and smiled delightedly. “Oh hi, Mr. Fell! We’re playing witch burnings!”

“Actually,” said Wensleydale, “we were supposed to be playing Salem Witch Trial, which happened in America, and there weren’t any burnings over there, only hangings.”

“But that’s _boring_ ,” Pepper said, dropping another handful of sticks at Crowley’s feet. 

“So you decided to burn him at the stake instead?” Aziraphale marveled yet again at the amazing and often innocent yet sadistic nature of children. “Well, I… suppose that makes sense.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed dangerously at him, but he still made no move to free himself, only cursed profusely at Aziraphale through the gag. 

“Don’t worry,” said Adam, from his seat overlooking them all, “we weren’t _really_ going to burn Uncle Anthony at the stake. Unless you wanted us to,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “I know he can be annoying.”

“Mff!” said Crowley.

“That’s – that’s very kind of you all. Believe me, he truly is a menace that needs to be stopped. But I need him in one piece for the foreseeable future, so perhaps we could put off the menace-stopping until another day?”

“Oh,” said Adam. He looked at his friends, who all looked back expectantly. “I guess so.”

Aziraphale let out very relieved sigh. “You all run along, I’ll see that Uncle Anthony doesn’t cause anymore mayhem today.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “In fact, if you all run very fast and get to the shop before it closes, I think there might be a new flavour of ice cream in stock today.”

All four children lit up with the exact same expression, even Adam, and they all dropped their makeshift torture implements and ran down the dirt lane, with Dog bounding happily after them. 

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the gag disappeared.

“Took you long enough!” Crowley gasped, and made short work of the ropes tying him to the tree trunk. “They’re a bunch of maniacal little shits.”

“You’d almost think they didn’t quite remember the day they defeated the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and shouted down the Devil himself.”

“I know. I must say, I am prodigiously proud of them. Some of my best work.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale tersely, “I’ve noticed.” He picked a bit of bark from Crowley’s tousled hair. “And your best work managed to manipulate you into getting bound and gagged.” Crowley opened his mouth as though about to make a rude comment, but the look on Aziraphale’s face made him think better of it. “What made you going along with this farce?”

“Well, you were napping, Arthur was napping, and Deirdre was getting ready to talk about missionary work, so I decided to run off with the kids for a few hours.”

“And get tied to a stake.”

“Look, it’s not like Adam told me ahead of time what he was planning.”

“He doesn’t _plan_ things, he makes them up as he goes along.”

“You see my dilemma.” Crowley looked around, found his sunglasses on a heap of molding comic books, and fished out a cloth to wipe the lenses. “But I don’t mind telling you, angel, that _that_ was the closest brush with discorporation I’ve had in a very long time.”

“Oh, for—you weren’t in any real danger, Crowley.” Though the hint of a bright red can behind Adam’s seat gave him pause. “Besides, couldn’t you have just stopped the game?”

“Do I look like a complete idiot to you?” Crowley wrenched a twig out of the back of his jeans. “I tried that.”

“And?”

“And it didn’t work!”

“You mean they ignored you?”

“I mean, I had absolutely no will power to do anything to save my own neck.” He put his hands behind his back and pressed on either side of his spine, wincing. “Adam’s still got more of his old man in him than we’d like to think.”

Aziraphale felt suddenly chilled. “You mean... he was controlling you.”

Crowley nodded. “He didn’t mean to. At least, I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean to. It didn’t seem like he was doing it intentionally. He was just having his fun and playing his game. But that was definitely the effect.” 

“So the would-be Antichrist still has some powers.” Aziraphale looked worried. 

“Apparently.”

“That’s… troubling.”

“Well, at least we know humans are safe from him. And angels too, from what I saw. But demons are still putty in his hands.” He shot Aziraphale one dark look before putting on his glasses. “We’d better not let Heaven find out. They’d have a field day with that.”


	22. Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley thought he'd lost Aziraphale. Aziraphale's had to live with that fear for years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Last words" for portraitoftheoddity

Crowley tried to sleep, he really did. It had been a hellish day (to coin a phrase) and he wanted the black silk pyjamas and a soft mattress and the blissful brainless release of unconsciousness. But it wouldn't come. 

And he knew perfectly well why.

Finally he gave up, and went into the main room of his flat, where the reason for his insomnia was sitting in his gold-winged chair, holding a book Crowley was fairly certain he didn't actually own and was positive wasn't currently being read. 

Aziraphale blinked up at him, apparently surprised out of some deep thought. "Can't sleep?" 

"Nope." Crowley looked at him for a second or two, and then sighed and dropped bonelessly to the floor. He drew his legs up to his chest and leaned again the corner of the chair (and if that meant leaning resting some of his weight against Aziraphale's shin, well... couldn't be helped). 

"Any particular reason?"

_There's an angel in my living room and I love him, and the last thing I said to him before he discorporated was that I wouldn't think of him again,_ Crowley thought bleakly, running a hand through his hair and standing it even more on end. _Now I can't stop thinking about him and I can't ever let him out of my sight._

"Ah."

"'Ah'? Ah what, what the--oh fuck, I said that out loud, didn't I?"

"I'm afraid so." 

Crowley's entire body went rigid, and he started to get up and flee back to his bedroom, and possibly fling himself out a window, when Aziraphale's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Please." 

The weight of every single moment they had ever spent together was in that soft, sure touch.

Fighting the instincts of centuries, Crowley allowed himself to be coaxed back to his spot. Aziraphale closed his book and drew Crowley even nearer, and raised his hand to Crowley's head. "I have... a bit of a confession to make." 

"If you're looking for absolution, I've got some bad news for you."

Aziraphale ignored him. "When I gave you that flask of holy water, all those years ago, I was still firmly under the impression that you wished to do away with yourself."

"I remember. Can't say I ever really thought of it, til after... til I thought you were..."

"I know." Aziraphale slowly stroked Crowley's hair. Slow, soothing motions, occasionally pausing to massage right above the ears, as he might do to a cat, relaxing Crowley to a state of near-liquid under his fingers and making Crowley marvel at how anything in Creation had the right to feel that good.

"But you still gave it to me. Even though you thought I wanted to kill myself. I never figured out why."

"It's simple enough, really. The more I struggled with the problem, the more confused and worried I became. But when I heard about the church robbery you were planning, I decided that as much as it would hurt to lose you, it would be far worse for you to die attempting a dangerous theft of something I could just run from the tap."

Crowley twisted his neck round to peer up with a frown. "Is that really all holy water is?"

"Of course. Well, sort of - it's the blessing that makes it truly holy, of course. But it's not as though I had to go to Galilee to fetch the stuff."

"...I don't know why that never occurred to me before."

Aziraphale chuckled, and then his voice became very soft. "In the end, I gave you what you'd asked for because I knew you wouldn't trust me enough to ask again. Oh, I know you trusted me," he said, when Crowley moved to protest, "but this was different. It was so deeply personal. And of course, suicide is considered a mortal sin ("Depends on the sect, these days.") and that as an angel, I ought not to be aiding and abetting anyone with that end in mind, but for a demon, it didn't seem like it should be on the same footing. And I realized... if you were determined to end your life, it should be on your own terms, with at least some degree of agency and... peace. Even if it meant that the means of doing so had to come from me. Even if that made me responsible."

Crowley was very still.

Then he reached up, found Aziraphale's hand, brought it down to his lips briefly, and then just held it very tightly.

"I didn't understand," Aziraphale murmured. "But I felt sure, when I gave you that Thermos flask, that it would be the last time I saw you. And I was trying, I suppose, to give you a reason not to use it."

_Perhaps we could, I don't know... go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz..._

"And then I spooked you. I moved too fast. Because that was the last... oh."

"Yes. I left you that night believing that I would never see you again, and that in trying to help, I'd made everything between us infinitely worse."

Crowley thought back to the time he'd seen Aziraphale after that. He couldn't actually recall the occasion, only that upon seeing him, the angel's face had lit up like a supernova. "Though you were going to kiss me right there on the street, when we bumped into each other again."

"Believe me, I considered it. Briefly." Aziraphale slipped his hand beneath Crowley's chin and made him look up. The pale blue eyes that gazed down at him were wistful and sad, and hopeful. "If I had, perhaps we'd have gotten here a few years sooner." 

Crowley swallowed, and half-climbed, half-slithered into Aziraphale's lap. "Better late than never," he said hoarsely.


	23. Spat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale didn't mean to not speak to Crowley for sixty-five years. It just... happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If I should meet thee/how should I greet thee?/with silence and tears.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (Anonymous)

Aziraphale avoided St. James' Park for years after his spat with Crowley. He hadn't intended it to _be_ a spat, but that was what it had turned into, and he hadn't intended his avoidance of their usual spot in the park to turn into an avoidance of Crowley, but days turned into weeks and weeks into months, as they were wont to do, and not only did he not go back to the park, but Crowley didn't come to him, either. 

He had Crowley's London address, of course. Actually, he had it in two places: one, copied neatly into his own memorandum book, and the other on the original scrap of paper that Crowley had left on his desk when he'd changed flats the decade prior, written in Crowley's awkward left-handed scrawl. Aziraphale hadn't been able to quite bring himself to throw it out, but kept it in a box filled with all of the other random notes his friend had given him over the years, ever since the invention of paper. It wasn't a large box, but it was exactly as large as Aziraphale needed it to be, and it held everything. 

But knowing where Crowley lived and dropping in to see him, unannounced and uninvited... well, Aziraphale, would never do such a thing. He simply wouldn't.

And he had already offended his friend enough. 

'The Arrangement', Crowley always called it. Aziraphale preferred to think of it as 'The Agreement.' Much less personal, more businesslike. Safer for them both for Aziraphale to always keep their relationship on a purely business footing. An arrangement sounded much too much like something one had with a person you didn't want to acknowledge to the world, as politicians and rich men had mistresses. 

If he curtailed himself into thinking of it as purely business, then no emotions need be admitted to. Certainly not the feelings of being lost and alone and abandoned by his only friend, and definitely not the growing sense of having made a terrible mistake. 

But what else could he have done? Given Crowley what he'd asked for? No, never. It was simply unthinkable. He could never have handed over holy water to his demonic counterpart and then walked away to let Crowley end his life. He couldn't be the one to help another soul, even a lost one, commit such a mortal sin. He couldn't... 

He couldn't admit that he wasn't enough. Or that Crowley's request had rent him into a hundred thousand small shards all screaming the same thing: _Don't leave me alone._

So he had refused, insulted and indignant, and left Crowley standing beside the duck pond in St. James' Park, and turned his back on someone who had asked him for help. Just one hurt compounding another. 

He walked past the building where Crowley lived, several times a week, in fact, on the way to his club, where he went to find companionship among humans - a pale imitation of the warm, cantankerous familiarity he and Crowley had once shared - and every time, he lied to himself. "I'll just go up and see him on my way back." "Next time, I'll go in." "What if I wait here for him to emerge and pretend I was just passing by?" 

And never doing any of it, ever, and walking on with a hitch in his throat and tears in his eyes, terrified of actually seeing Crowley again, because he never quite figured out what to say beyond, "I'm sorry," and he couldn't bring himself to consider saying even that.


	24. Quashing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in Germany. Aziraphale's enjoying the season. Crowley is _cold_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If I had my way we’d sleep every night all wrapped around each other like hibernating rattlesnakes.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (Anonymous)

A year or two after the incident at the Bastille, Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves in Germany. The north of Germany, to be precise. It was December. It was near Christmas. And it was _cold_.

Crowley usually did his best to be in the southern hemisphere, come December, but sometimes he had to go where Hell sent him, and so did Aziraphale, and Germany never lacked for poets to tempt or cakes to eat, so they'd decided to take a bit of a working holiday. 

Not that Crowley was getting much work done. He was too busy shivering. 

"It's quite lovely in the village tonight," said Aziraphale, breezing into their shared lodgings with his arms full of parcels, most of them bottle-shaped, and bringing a fresh blast of cold air with him. "Lots of greenery festooning the homes. I can't wait for this tradition to reach England."

"Not for another forty years or so, thank Satan..." Crowley peeped out from his nest of blankets. "That a new scarf?"

"Oh!" Aziraphale colored with pleasure. "Yes, do you like it?"

"Mmm. Blue suits you. Don't know why you don't wear more of it."

"It's not really the thing for angels to be too colourful, you know. We're not peacocks."

Crowley was sure the other angels weren't. "I hope you got schnapps. Lots and lots of schapps. Mind throwing another log or six on the fire?"

Aziraphale poked up the fire and added more fuel, as well as suggesting under his breath that the blaze really ought to last the night without needing more fuel, and then turned his attention to the parcels. "Schnapps, brandy, plenty of wine, gingerbread for me, pfeffernusse for you... oh, and er. Compliments of the season and all that, my dear fellow."

"Angel," Crowley groaned, "don't be ridiculous."

"Just take it." Aziraphale threw a parcel at his head and ducked into the next room, blushing furiously. 

Crowley sat up in bed and glared at the paper-wrapped parcel. He had half a mind to set it on fire, but... he didn't really _want_ to. But it was skirting the edge of acceptability, an angel getting a gift for a demon, even it was 'twas the season or something. Goodwill and suchlike nonsense that Crowley did his best to quash whenever he came across it. Aziraphale, though, was immune to any sort of quashing. 

Finally, he gave up and opened it. 

Inside, he found an enormous handmade quilt made of, of all things, satin and velvet, patterned in dark red and soft sooty black, and absolutely fat with goose down. It was preposterously anachronistic, outrageously luxuriously, utterly Aziraphale. 

And Crowley couldn't _wait_ to curl up underneath it. 

In fact, that was precisely where Aziraphale found him when he returned. "Oh good," he said, with a huge smile. "You like it."

"You couldn't have found this at the local market."

"Er, no, not exactly. There was something like it, but it wasn't really something you'd want, so I took some... liberties..."

Crowley grinned. He had an idea of what sort of liberties an angel might take to find a blanket a demon might like. "It's perfect, angel. Pour the schnapps."

It took them several hours to work their way through all the bottles and all the sweets, and between the alcohol and the highly spiced cookies and the outlandish quilt, Crowley finally began to feel warm. 

"Oi, get under 'ere," he slurred happily, when the bottles were empty and the sweets were a memory. "It's nice."

"'m sure it is, but there's no room for two people."

Crowley promptly turned into a large snake. "Now there isss."

Aziraphale thought for a moment and decided this was a perfectly reasonable solution to the problem. He stumbled out of his shoes and coat and wormed awkwardly underneath the mountain of blankets. "Oh," he sighed. "This _is_ nice."

Crowley twined his coils around the angel's body, because obviously that made the best use of the space, and Aziraphale was already a nice soft warm object, so why wouldn't he?

"That's nice, too," said Aziraphale, already sleepy with comfort, and stroked Crowley's head as it rested on his chest.

As a demon, officially, Crowley had to object to the Christmas season. But he couldn't help but be grateful that year, and hope for it to become an annual tradition.


	25. Sanctifying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where there is sorrow, there is holy ground.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a direct sequel to anything, but picks up ideas from ["Obedience"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374796/chapters/47080501) and ["But Rather Darkness Visible"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345177).

For six thousand years, it had seemed the height of counter-intuitiveness to Aziraphale for Crowley to be so enamoured of ice-cold baths - he had been a snake, after all - but he understood better now. 

Gently, he walked Crowley up the stairs to the bookshop's first-floor flat, and helped him undress and settle into the deep claw-footed bathtub that had been there since before Victoria had been married, which was some time before deep claw-footed bathtubs had technically been invented, but Aziraphale had never before let a mere technicality get between him and his creature comforts. 

"Has it gotten worse?" he asked quietly, after Crowley had had a few minutes to let the near-freezing water cover his burning body. "Since the airfield?"

"Nngh," said Crowley. "More constant." The tub wasn't quite long enough for his long legs, so Aziraphale remedied that quickly and Crowley slid even further under the water, until his entire body was submerged, face and all. A small yellow rubber duck bobbed companionably on the surface. 

Aziraphale left him alone for a bit, to go and close up the shop and take care of some paperwork, and make tea. He put a nip of brandy into Crowley's cup and brought the tray upstairs. 

He found Crowley still under the water, blowing bubbles to make the rubber duck gambol. Aziraphale waved down at Crowley, who emerged with his hair plastered over his eyes, and looking much more comfortable. "Better?"

"Yeah, for the moment. Thanks." He drank the tea thirstily, without seeming to care what was actually in the cup, and let out a deep sigh. "It's harder to ignore now, than it was. Harder to hide."

Aziraphale pulled over the chair from the old-fashioned dressing table and sat down close to the tub. "And this is all from the Fall?"

"The underlying pain is. But most of it's just the result of living here."

"What, here in the shop?"

"Here on Earth. Humans have a way of sanctifying places, even when they don't mean to. It's different from consecrated ground; that's intentional. Easier to avoid. But emotions can make places holy."

"Yes, I've noticed that." Aziraphale looked sad. "The same way they can make ghosts."

"Yep." Crowley pushed the wet hair off his forehead and reached for the rubber duck, turning it over and over between his hands. "And holy places aren't really good for demons, as you know damned well."

"But the whole planet's been affected by human emotions. Surely you aren't... you don't mean demons have this reaction to the whole world. None of you would ever come up here, if that was the case."

Crowley shook his head. "It effects different demons in different ways. For me, it's places of sorrow. Places where people lost things. Battlefields, hospitals... cemeteries. Dingy roadside motels. Popular places to commit suicide. And I told you already: I got this the worst, because I still give a fuck about... things."

Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley's wet hair, smiling a little when Crowley let his eyes flutter closed - a very rare sight - and leaned into his touch with a sigh of relief and contentment. "You do," said Aziraphale softly. "It's one of the things I've always loved about you."

"You can't fix this," Crowley murmured. "Told you that already."

"I'm not here to fix you, my dear. I'm just here. You're not the only one who gives a fuck about things and people they really shouldn't, you know."

Crowley said nothing to that, only brought his hand up to lace his fingers together with Aziraphale's.


	26. Freckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When wine enters modesty departs.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (Anonymous)

Aziraphale blinked in surprise at Crowley, who had his face very close indeed. He was surprised because he couldn't remember when Crowley had gotten that close, but he wasn't complaining. And that wasn't because of the eight hours of steady drinking they had already put in that day - a very good day's work for both of them, if they did say so themselves. 

He could smell the wine on Crowley's breath, along with tobacco and cinnamon (Crowley liked to steal cinnamon sticks from the house's cook, to annoy her, but also he just liked the taste), and he really had no idea what Crowley was saying at that moment but he wasn't about to stop him, his face was so animated and his voice was so excited about... about... oh, it probably didn't matter at all, and his _eyes_...

"You really do have the most beautiful eyes, you know," said Aziraphale dreamily. 

Crowley stopped short in the middle of a sentence and fell into a metaphorical (and possibly metaphysical) pothole. "I-di-gah-sorry, what'd y' say?"

"I _said_ , you have the most beautiful eyes. I think I could stare into them for years and never tire of them."

"You're drunk. You are, in fact, so very drunk."

"Oh, I know. But tha's what I think."

"...Could do the same thing," Crowley muttered. "Have done, too."

"Is _that_ why you're almost always wearing glasses around me?" Without quite realizing why it was a bad idea, but feeling that it was really a fantastic idea, Aziraphale laid his hand against Crowley's lean cheek.

"Yeah. I mean, no! No, it's mostly so I don't hafta make an effort to keep humans from seeing... but also, yes."

"Hmm." Aziraphale stroked Crowley's cheekbone with his thumb. "You've got freckles."

"Do not."

"Do too."

"Do _not_."

"You do! You see?" Aziraphale leaned forward and pressed a playful kiss to Crowley's cheek. "There's one. And there's one. And another..." Crowley said nothing. Very loudly. "Actually, those were all rather more than one, but you get the idea."

"Aziraphale... don't stop."

"I'd keep going, but you're turning very red and I can't see the freckles anymore."

"I've got others." Crowley wrapped his arms around Aziraphale and kissed him so thoroughly that to the very end of time, the angel never quite managed to get the taste of wine and tobacco and cinnamon out of the back of his throat. 

He found many, many, _many_ more freckles, and Crowley managed to find a few on Aziraphale that were previously undiscovered by anyone, and they woke late the next morning in a tangle of limbs, clothes, and a mutual dawning realization that eight hours of solid drinking was definitely too much. 

They kept their drinking binges to six hours, after that. Seven, maximum. And they made a point of keep their clothes on, and - most importantly - never mentioning freckles.


	27. Ungentle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I love you, what business is it of yours?” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (Anonymous – 2 requests)

Crowley drove him home from the church. Only Crowley could have maneuvered them through the rubble-strewn streets of London during a blackout without any further unpleasantnesses. 

"You saved my books," said Aziraphale shyly. 

Crowley slid him a look through his dark lenses. "You saved my arse."

"I would have been fine. Desperately inconvenienced and in need of a new body, but fine. You didn't have to come."

"...It's done now, anyway."

Aziraphale looked at his hands, curled around the handle of the Gladstone bag, and remembered how his finger had momentarily brushed against Crowley's as he handed over the books. "So... sixty-five years. How have you been?"

"Ehh, not too bad. Got mixed up in the First World War, don't remember much of the twenties, spent most of the thirties in America. Head Office brought me back here in thirty-nine, but I didn't want to muck around with trenches this time, so I slithered my way into the Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. That's been fun."

"Well, that explains how you found me, anyway..."

"I always know where you are."

"...Oh," said Aziraphale softly.

A large piece of roof that had been lying in the road moved out of the way for the Bentley. "But we'd been keeping an eye on Rose Whatsername, an' then you turned up in the surveillance photos, so I figured I should push along and--"

"Keep me from getting into trouble, yes. You mentioned." Aziraphale rubbed his thumb fretfully over the leather handle's stitching. "Crowley, I'm--"

"If you say grateful one more time, you're getting out here."

"I'm sorry. For... what I said, sixty-five years ago."

Crowley nearly drove into a Red Cross van parked on the sidewalk. "Okay, look, you can't just do that while I'm driving. Or ever. Apologizing to a demon is going to raise a _lot_ of eyebrows on both sides, if it ever gets back to the wrong ears."

"Why did you come to the church?"

"...Because I had to. I always turn up when you're in trouble."

"I got into plenty of trouble between eighteen sixty-one and now, and you never turned up!"

"Didn't turn up, but I was always there. Leaving you on your own is cruelty to dumb angels."

"Crowley." Aziraphale's voice was very gentle. A little wheedling, a little frustrated. "Why did you save me?"

Crowley's hands fell from the wheel and into his lap. The Bentley drove on unaided, and rolled to a stop in front of the bookshop. "Don't ask me that again," said Crowley finally. "It won't do either of us any good... and there are ears everywhere."

"I... I think I lo--"

"Shut it," Crowley snarled. "It's none of your business, anyway."

Aziraphale got out of the car and took the books with him. Before Crowley could drive away, he put his hand on the driver's side window. "If I promise to shut up, will you come in for a drink? I've got some very good wine in the back that's never even heard of a blockade."

"...Oh hell, why not," Crowley sighed, and got out.


	28. Direct Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I talk to God but the sky is empty.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

One of the unexpected perils of living with Crowley, Aziraphale quickly learned, was walking in on him having heated and very one-sided conversations with the Almighty. 

Not that _Crowley_ minded at all. In fact, if anything, having Aziraphale sharing the same living space made him feel more free to yell at God. It was Aziraphale who felt awkward and uncomfortable whenever he overheard. 

Because it seemed so... casual. So familiar. So... disrespectful. Aziraphale worried that Crowley was courting disaster by speaking his mind so directly. It offended his sense of privacy, somehow, that he should be listening to Crowley pouring out his heart and his thoughts and his grievances and saying things to God that he couldn't say to Aziraphale. 

And... it offended Aziraphale personally, that God could hear all of these things, that often wounded him deeply on Crowley's behalf, and still say nothing. 

He told Crowley all of this, late one night as they sat out in the garden of their cottage, wine glasses in hand, watching the fireflies dance among the lilacs. 

"They don't always say nothing, you know," said Crowley, after a long time of looking at Aziraphale with an expression that made him feel very warm and tingly from head to toe. "At least, I don't think so."

"You mean, She does answer you?"

"I get answers. Sometimes. Maybe they're from the Almighty, maybe not. But they're never direct answers."

"You'd think they would be," Aziraphale grumbled, "since you always cut out the middleman."

"Well, you want anything done, you've got to go straight to the top."

"I tried that, once. It... didn't work out for me."

"Yeah... I remember."

Aziraphale reached over and seized his hand, and for several moments, they sat like that, gazing at one another and not saying a word. 

"What about you?" Crowley asked, breaking the silence. "I don't think I've heard you talk to God at all since we moved here."

"Oh, no, I... I prefer to do that in private. When I do it at all." Aziraphale dropped his hand and looked away. "It's not very often, anymore. It never seemed to help, and... well, after a while, it started to feel like an imposition, asking for guidance from the Highest of the High all the time."

"Isn't that what they're supposed to be there for?"

"Yes, of course, but..." Aziraphale shrugged. "And then after the whole business with Adam and both of our former sides trying to eliminate us... there didn't seem to be much point anymore. It felt very apparent that I wasn't welcome in Her thoughts."

Crowley grimaced and let his head flop against the back of his lawn chair. 

"Ironic, isn't it?" said Aziraphale, with a sad little smile. "That of the two of us, you should be the one who prays."

"It's not prayer, angel, it's a conversation. It's me getting angry an' asking questions, like I've always done. It's the same thing I was doing before I Fell. Only difference now is that sometimes, I get answers."

"How? If they don't come from Her directly, how do you find peace or clarity in anything?"

"When answers come at all? They come indirectly." Crowley lolled his head round to look at Aziraphale. "From you, usually."

Aziraphale blinked several times and made some befuddled noises, and finally gave up entirely on responding. He made his way into Crowley's lap and cuddled there until the wine was gone and they went inside to bed.


	29. Push

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I felt it shelter to speak to you.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

The angel of the Eastern Gate raised his wing to offer Crawley shelter from the oncoming rain, and Crawley accepted without hesitation, moving under the strong arch of white feathers. "Thanks."

"Er... don't mention it."

"What's your name, by the way?"

"Aziraphale."

"Aziraphale," Crawley repeated, tasting the words as he tasted the air. "This stuff doesn't bother you? This... water from the sky?"

"It's called rain, apparently. And no, it doesn't." 

Crawley looked, and saw that the drops of liquid were all falling around Aziraphale rather than directly on him. "Oh, that's clever. How long d'you think this'll last?"

"Not sure. As long as it takes to thoroughly discourage Adam and Eve, I expect."

"Not long, then."

"No," Aziraphale agreed, sounding worried. 

Crawley gnawed a bit on his lower lip, frowning and thinking. "They'll be all right, you know. These humans. I mean, I can't speak for long-term plans, but these two... they'll be all right."

"I hope so. I wasn't supposed to get attached, but I couldn't really help it, could I? It's not as though there was anything else to do here or anyone else to talk to."

"I was here this whole time. Nothing stopping you from saying 'How d'you do?' in passing."

"You're a demon! I wasn't going to just pass the time of day."

"Nah, not like now, eh?" Crawley grinned. "You had better things to do, like lifting pears off that one tree by the south pond."

Aziraphale's feathers ruffled indignantly over his head. "I didn't _lift_ them. They had already fallen to the ground. They would have rotted if they weren't picked up right away! And the humans were... otherwise occupied."

"I'll say they were... Is she having a girl or boy, d'you think? Or did humans get other gendered bodies?"

"Quite a few genders, so I heard. But the rumor is that it's going to be a boy. The first few will be boys, actually. And all that birthing is going to hurt now," Aziraphale added sternly, "thanks to you."

Crawley was a little stung by that but he did his best not to show it. "Just doing my job. I don't make anybody do not-good things, I just give 'em the idea and a little push in the appropriate direction. The decision's up to them."

The rain began to lessen, and Crawley reluctantly stepped out from beneath the sheltering wing. "S'pose I'll be going, then," he said, reluctantly. "Got to make my report back downstairs."

"Yes... I'm sure I'll be in for a right old ear-chewing over this." Worriedly, Aziraphale twisted the ring on his little finger. "Crawley?"

"Hmm?"

"Why the deuce did you just... decide to come up and talk to me?"

Crawley shrugged. "Dunno, really. You were there. It, uh. It was nice chatting with you. It's been a while since I got to stand around and talk to anybody sane. Maybe we'll do it again, sometime."

"Oh! Maybe, yes. I mean, no. No, definitely not. Never again. Go away."

"Right." Crawley shrugged and turned back into a snake, promising himself that he'd strike up a conversation with this angel if he ever bumped into him again. "See you around, Aziraphale."


	30. Summons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale's called back to Heaven, and Crowley, well, he worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I always think that the best way to know God is to love many things.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (xandwyrms)

Crowley sat at the table in the kitchen of his little cottage, alone. He wrapped his hands around a black ceramic mug and stared into the slowly stewing depths of his tea. He didn’t typically go in for comforting drinks that were alcohol-free, but all things considered, he wanted to be sober when Aziraphale came home. 

Or didn’t come home. 

He’d only been gone a few hours, but the summons from Upstairs had been unexpected, sudden, and irrefutable, and Aziraphale was still an angel, even if he was a decidedly disobedient one. “I can’t just say _no_ ,” he had told Crowley, before his departure. “If I don’t go to them, they’ll come to me. And that never leads to good things.”

And Crowley couldn’t really argue with that, even though he very much wanted to, so he’d stood back that afternoon and let Aziraphale go up to his head office. But not before Aziraphale had drawn him close and kissed him softly. “I won’t be long,” he’d promised.

He hadn’t been long, so far, but every second felt like a stab to Crowley, who had tried to do something, _anything_ , to occupy his time, but the dishes were still unwashed and the garden was still unweeded and the books were still covered in dust. He wasn’t good at concentrating at the best of times and this was not that.

It was after dark when the kitchen door opened and Aziraphale stepped inside. Crowley stood up, took three long strides to the door and enfolded him in his arms. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, my dear, I’m fine. Just tired.”

“Did they hurt you?”

“Hurt, no. Insulted, deeply.” He pulled Crowley down for a long, emphatic kiss that left Crowley with a slightly malfunctioning nervous system. “Take me to bed, darling. I need you and rest, in that order.”

He never needed to ask twice. 

Later, much later, when Aziraphale was calmer and pressed close against Crowley’s slightly scaly back, he explained what the summons had been about. “Gabriel wants me to give you up. Of course, I told him absolutely not.”

Crowley couldn’t help it; he let out a wounded, broken sound. Aziraphale’s hand immediately tightened on his hip. “I’m here, Anthony. I came back.”

“I, whuh. Why’d he... why?”

Aziraphale snorted. “Apparently, my helping to avert the end times is only a small blight on Gabriel’s professional record. Far worse is that he ‘lost’ an angel to a demon and now we’re cohabiting. According to him, the very fact that I haven’t officially Fallen is proof that it’s his job to persuade me back into his good books.”

“...So he hasn’t clued in that you not being Fallen means that you haven’t actually done anything too terrible wrong, I take it.”

“Clearly not.”

“He always was a thick sod.”

“Denser than a neutron star” Aziraphale agreed. 

“That was the whole conversation? And it took _that_ long?”

“It wasn’t much of a conversation. He lectured me for half a day along those lines. About how I was letting down the side and disappointing the Almighty, and I really needed to give up on this... folly... before it got out of hand.”

Crowley made a sour noise. “And what’d you say, when you finally got to say something?”

“I simply told him that if the Almighty was disappointed in me, She would surely let me know about it. After all, it’s not like She doesn’t know where to find me. But really, I don’t think She is. Actually, I feel like She and I understand one another better now than ever before.”

“How nice for you... wait, you said all this to Gabriel?”

Aziraphale nodded. 

“Wow. I’m impressed. What, uh, what’d he say to that?”

“Oh, he spluttered for a while and then demanded to know how I could be so sure?”

Crowley traced the outline of Aziraphale’s hand on his hip, and wondered the same thing. “And?”

“I told him that I’ve always felt that the best way to know God is to love many things, and that I’ve always striven to do so, to the best of my ability.”

“Yeah... yeah. You do.” Crowley twisted over under Aziraphale’s arm and buried his face in his chest. “You’re good at that.” He felt Aziraphale’s fingers on the back of his neck, rubbing the clipped hairs there. “Did Gabriel have anything pithy to say in response?”

“After that, he just told me to leave, and that he’d have some paperwork for me to sign soon. Transference of duties and suchlike. Which was really a pity. I left before I could say the thing I most wanted to.” Aziraphale nestled his cheek against Crowley’s hair. “That in the matter of learning to love many things, right from the beginning, I’ve had a very good teacher.”


	31. Builders' Fees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale takes a liking to a very unlikely cottage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (timetravelbypen)

The cottage they found, finally, to be the home that they would share together, was an absolute tumbled down wreck on the outskirts of a little Hampshire village called Holmwood. In fact, when they told the estate agent that they would take it, she initially thought they were joking.

"I didn't actually intend to show this place to you gentleman as a possible purchase," said the young woman, apologetically. "It was just on the way to the next listing and I thought you'd like to see it, as a curiosity."

It was definitely that, Aziraphale thought, looking around. Granted, his whole fastidious self shrank from the dirt and debris in the parlour, the hole in the bedroom ceiling, the decades of dust that had taken up residence in the study, the jackdaws' nests in the chimneys, the lack of plumbing in the kitchen and the complete lack of any bathroom or toilet facilities whatsoever. 

But those shelves lining the study looked amazingly sturdy and, though Aziraphale couldn't say why, well-cared for. It was altogether too easy to imagine his most treasured books on those shelves, all jumbled together in his own particular organizational system, his desk in one corner and comfortable chairs before a good wood fire.

And the place had... well, a feeling about it. 

"A feeling," Crowley said, eyeing him doubtfully. "What, like in Tadfield?"

"Yes!" Aziraphale replied, a bright, slightly breathless smile blooming over his face. "Yes, almost exactly like Tadfield. Someone loves this place. Can't you feel it?"

Crowley's fond, sardonic little smile expressed very eloquently that the only thing he felt just then was desperate adoration and a hint of frustration over the angel in his life. "Who was the last person to live here?" he asked, turning to the estate agent. 

"Oh, some eccentric old poet woman, I think. She died in the nineteen fifties. No family, and she never had the cottage modernized, obviously, so the house has just sat abandoned for sixty-odd years. In fact," she added, plainly a little hesitant now that they had expressed some interest, "the village council was planning to have this place condemned. They want it torn down."

"Oh, no, they mustn't do that!" Aziraphale turned round sharply. "Absolutely not. We'll take it."

"We will? Angel, the amount of work this place needs is ridic—" 

Aziraphale grabbed his arm, tossed a hurried, "Be right back!" to the bewildered agent, and dragged Crowley through the kitchen and out the side door into the back garden. "Just look at that."

Crowley looked, and his jaw dropped slightly. 

The garden immediately before them was overgrown, which was expected, but it was also surprisingly lush and bursting with life, with climbing ivy and roses rioting over the low stone walls, and columbines in clusters everywhere, and along a little footpath beyond, they could see a garden with higher walls, and just peeping over the top, the beautiful spring blossoms of apple and cherry trees.

"How in the Heaven... who exactly loves this place, Aziraphale? The mad poet woman?"

Aziraphale nodded. "I think she's still here. She's been caring for the place, waiting for someone to come and... appreciate it. To love it as much as she does, so she can move on."

Crowley shoved his hands into his jeans pockets and looked at the garden for a long time. "It'll take a lot of work," he said at last. "We can't just miracle it all into perfection, you know that."

"Yes."

"And I won't be able to yell at these plants, not if there's some protective ghost who's been tending them for half a century."

"I suspect she'll move on, once we take possession. And I wouldn't yell at those roses anyway, if I were you. Those old-fashioned varieties will probably yell back."

"Nngh, probably. ...Living here'll be like camping, at first. There isn't even a bathtub."

"We spent thousands of years without plumbing. A few months won't hurt us. Besides..." Aziraphale took Crowley's hand. "As long as we have a garden and a library, we have everything we need."

Crowley's expression softened into something inexpressibly tender. "And each other," he mumbled, ducking his head as he turned very red, right to the roots of his hair. 

"Well, yes, my dear. That goes without saying."

"I erm. Yeah. Break out the checkbook, then, eh? I don't plan on mucking about with a mortgage."

"Heavens, no," Aziraphale shuddered. "The builders' fees are going to be hideous enough as it is." He brought Crowley's hand to his lips and kissed it. "Thank you, my dear. I think..." It was his turn to blush, just a little. "I think we shall be very happy here."


	32. All the Fashion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After avoiding being executed, an angel and a demon share a lift ride. (Rated E for smut)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Nice is different than good.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (meldanya44)
> 
> I had a _very_ specific set of requests for this prompt...

There were two separate escalators to serve Heaven and Hell, respectively, but for some reason, only one lift, with only three buttons. There were two theories as to why this should be. The frustrated angels believed it was as a lesson in divine patience. The cursing demons, the few who had the opportunity to use it, just figured it was one more torment. 

Normally, if there was a demon on board, it went no higher than Earth. If an angel, no lower than Earth. This could be overridden, of course, in unusual circumstances. 

And when a demon in the guise of an angel stepped on board, the poor lift was deeply confused. Crowley pushed the button for Earth-level but wasn't altogether surprised when he saw the button for Hell light up as well. 

"Right on time," he murmured, feeling very pleased, very smug, and very, very relieved. 

It was a long trip down to the basement, however, so he had time to think, and to examine a few bits of angelic anatomy that there hadn't been time to explore before. "Hmm," he said, feeling around through the light blue shirt. "Ooh, that's interesting... I wonder how long those've been there?"

He pondered the implications of his discovery all during the long ride down. 

The door dinged and opened to reveal Crowley's own face looking back at him, and behind the angel wearing his face, a pack of very nervous demons and one very perturbed archangel. He stepped onto the lift. 

"Crowley," said Crowley. 

"Aziraphale," said Aziraphale. He gave the terrified demons a mock salute as the doors closed. "See ya round, guys." 

Crowley kept his mouth shut until they were safely on their way, and then he _grinned_. "Well, that was naughty."

"Yes," said Aziraphale brightly, "I thought it went over quite well." 

"You all right?"

"Oh, jolly good... I'll have nightmares for years over what they tried to do to you, but otherwise, I'm fine. You?"

"The same." Crowley felt suddenly exposed. He started to reach into his jacket for his sunglasses, but gave up halfway through when he remembered whose jacket he was wearing and whose face he was wearing. 

"Here," said Aziraphale, taking off the glasses and holding them out. 

Crowley looked (slightly up) into his own yellow eyes, and saw Aziraphale looking back at him. No one else could see him there, but Crowley could. He could see very clearly his angel's weariness, and his worry, and his love. 

And he remembered that they'd both been too damned nervous last night to do anything about it.

Crowley took the glasses and stepped close to Aziraphale, right into his personal space, and Aziraphale made no objection, even though it meant he was crowded into the lift’s corner. Very deliberately, Crowley tucked the glasses into the inside pocket of the black jacket. Then in one swift motion, he scooped Aziraphale up, plunked his skinny arse onto the narrow handrail, and kissed him hard. 

“Quickly,” Aziraphale moaned, “we’re almost halfway there.”

They made quick work of the garments in their way and melded together with nothing between them, not even doubt. 

“Oh,” Crowley breathed, giddy with his words hitting his ears in Aziraphale’s voice, “oh, you feel _good_...”

“That’s how _you_ feel,” Aziraphale muttered, burying his face in Crowley’s soft plump throat and sucking hard to keep from crying out as he drove into him. “This is your – that’s my – it’s – _oh!_ – how we both feel.”

It was the most delirious and disorienting sex Crowley had ever experienced, and it only got stranger and more wonderful when Aziraphale unlatched a hand from his hair and found what Crowley had found through the light blue shirt, rubbing purposefully. 

The sensation was electric. He came suddenly and hard, with a scream that might have been a benediction muffled against his skin. And for a few moments, there was only their shared breathing, for the sake of the other’s bodies rather than for their own benefit. 

“God,” muttered Aziraphale. 

“Mmm.”

“That was... amazing. And weird.”

“Mhmm.”

“And in the lift. Not very nice, for our first time.”

Crowley let out a little giggle that just bordered on hysterical. “Oh, fuck ‘nice,’ angel. That reminds me.” He grinned against Aziraphale’s throat. “Nipple rings? Really? That’s not very nice, either.”

He glanced up at watched in amusement as his own face blushed. He tended not to go quite that red when he was inhabiting that body, but apparently it worked differently for Aziraphale. “It was all the fashion in the eighteen-nineties!”

“And you just decided to keep them all this time?”

“I, er. Like how they feel.”

“Good? I definitely think they feel good...”

“Very,” said Aziraphale, huskily. “And... well, nice is different than good, you know.”

Crowley groaned. He couldn’t remember the last time he had wanted Aziraphale so badly and not been able to have him. (It was only three or so days ago, but it had been a hectic three or so days and he’d lost track of time a bit. And the fact that he had literally just had him and was still inside him was beside the point.) “When we get out of here, I’d... uh, I’d like to... sorry, I’ve forgotten how words work.”

Aziraphale tugged lightly on his soft blond curls. “I’d be delighted, my dear fellow,” he murmured. “But now, we really should make ourselves seemly before we reach the ground floor.”

“Right. Don’t want to give anyone a show... pity. Could be fun.” He lowered Aziraphale carefully to the floor on slightly shaky arms. 

To his surprise, Aziraphale caught his face before he could move away and gave him the sweetest, filthiest kiss he could have ever dreamed of. He’d had no idea his own lips could even _do_ that, let alone his tongue... “Private shows only, dear fellow. Private shows only.”


	33. Small Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Archangel Gabriel and Beelzebub, Lord of the Flies? It's strictly a business relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “It is easier to forgive an enemy than forgive a friend.” (Gabriel & Beelzebub) (meldanya44)

The Archangel Gabriel was jogging through St. James' Park at dusk. He actually liked physical exercise; it was good for the corporation and he found the different bodily reactions to exertion fascinating. Heart rate, blood pressure, respiration... even sweat glands were interesting, if disgusting.

He couldn't do it too often, sadly, because in many ways a body was still a body and the more energy a body expended the more it had to intake, and since he refused to consume earthly matter to fuel his corporation, it meant that jogging had to be a once-in-a-while indulgence. 

Since the aborted End of the World, though, he'd been jogging more frequently. Michael warned him daily that if he didn't stop, he would have to start eating. And that was a slippery slope. 

He ran past a series of refuse collection containers, frowned, and then turned back. "Oh. Uh... hi."

Beelzebub, Prince of Flies and Chief Lord of Hell, blew a stream of cigarette smoke into his face. "Hi."

"What are you doing up here?"

They waved a nonchalant cigarette. "No smoking in Hell. Satan's orders."

Gabriel frowned as he jogged in place. "...Seriously?"

"He doesn't like the smell."

Privately, Gabriel couldn't blame Lucifer for that, but he wasn't about to be caught dead agreeing with The Devil. "So, uh... how've you been?"

"Eh. Same. Paperwork up the arse and ungrateful minions everywhere. You?"

"About the same."

"Sucks."

"Yeah, yeah it does." Gabriel stopped running in place and bent over for a few seconds to catch his breath. 

"Why d'you do that? Exercise is considered torture in Hell, you know."

"I like it. It's... fun."

Beelzebub looked sideways at him with all their eye segments, which was always an interesting sight to behold.

They were on opposite sides, of course, always had been, but it was reassuring to have a familiar enemy to fight with, or to commiserate with, when the opportunity arose. 

They'd known each other since time immemorial, from before the Rebellion, even though neither of them could now recall Beelzebub's original name and form. But they'd really gotten to know each other while attending corporate management training seminars in the nineteen-eighties. 

Gabriel had been curious, and looking to find better ways to motivate his staff. Beelzebub had been hiding from a mandatory Dark Council retreat and thought the seminars would make a decent excuse. They hadn't gotten much useful material out of the courses, apart from the idea to put up motivational posters in Hell's offices. 

But in spite of themselves, they'd ended up drifting together during the breaks. The fact was, Gabriel was just too unpracticed around humans to make small talk with them, and Beelzebub... didn't do small talk. 

So they'd hung around during the coffee and smoke breaks and the meal breaks, and just talked shop. Vague shop, of course; it wouldn't do to give the Opposition any sensitive information. But their respective jobs were similar enough that they could at least exchange some distant understanding. 

And whenever they encountered each other in the wild, they tended to fall back into that pattern. 

"They meet on the opposite side of the park," said Beelzebub. "The traitors. But they don't go there at night."

"I wasn't actually looking for them. If I never seem either of them again, I'll be a happy archangel. Just... needed to get out of the office for a bit. Clear my brain." 

Beelzebub grunted their understanding, and offered Gabriel their cigarette. 

He eyed it warily. They were always doing that, trying to tempt him to inhale poisons for fun. Humans did it all the time, of course, and it eventually killed them, but it had no such effect on ethereal or occult bodies, so he didn't see the point.

"Why do you indulge in... that," he asked, pointing to the small burning paper stick, and batting away a fly buzzing round his head.

Beelzebub shrugged. "Dunno, really. Because it's bad for you. And it's calming. There's isn't anything downstairs that'll do that. Or upstairs, I'll bet."

Gabriel looked at the Lord of Hell and grimaced... but he took the cigarette.


	34. Recompense

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley needs some time to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I talk to God but the sky is empty.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (Anonymous)

Aziraphale wasn’t really surprised when the collapse came. He’d been expecting it for a few days, ever since the Apocalypse had spluttered to a halt and Crowley had somehow managed to stop the entirety of time on Earth as well as in Heaven and in Hell, if only for a handful of seconds, to give the Antichrist time to breathe. 

That was an enormous effort of power and will, particularly for a demon of no consequence (Crowley’s words, not Aziraphale’s), and it wasn’t an act that anyone could manage without paying some kind of price. And then to go through the agony and glory of being known, so that after helping to save the world, he could walk into Heaven to save one additional life. 

It was inevitable, then, that Crowley’s bodies, both the mortal and immortal ones, would demand recompense. 

Aziraphale helped Crowley back from the cavernous black granite bathroom and got him settled back into bed, propping him upright with pillows. He sponged away the blood that had begun to trickled, again, from Crowley’s nose and ears. 

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” Crowley mumbled. “Can manage myself.”

“I beg to differ. You’re in pain.” 

“‘ve done it before. Not the first time I’ve done somethin’ this… uh, this…”

“Melodramatic?” Crowley tried to growl but only succeeded in grumbling, a sound which ended in a tiny, ashamed whimper. “Don’t misunderstand me, my dear fellow, you did precisely what needed to be done at that moment. I don’t know about the other instances, but I’m quite sure that you didn’t have to suffer alone then, even if you chose to. You always knew where to find me. And I’m here now, you don’t have to suffer alone now, and I’m not going to let you.”

“Nngk. Stubborn angel.” Crowley did something very ill-advised and tried to push himself upright. “I—oh, bugger.” His eyes suddenly rolled back in his head and he slumped sideways. 

“Oh, not again…” Aziraphale sighed and put away all his panic-related emotions in a small mental drawer neatly labeled “For Later – Do Not Touch”, and did what he needed to.

When Crowley groped his way back to consciousness, he wasn’t in his bed. He wasn’t even in his bedroom. He was on the balcony of his flat, wrapped in a blanket in spite of the humid summer nights in London, and Aziraphale had him in his lap, cradling Crowley’s long, rawboned body against his chest.

“Angel?”

“Hmm?”

“Why’m I outside?”

“Because I’ve been holding you for the past two hours and I needed a break, and there isn’t anywhere comfortable in your flat to sit.”

“…Oh.”

“Besides…” Aziraphale gently shifted Crowley’s position so that he could see the night sky. “The stars are quite lovely tonight.”

Crowley looked, and felt a very different sort of pain stab at him, right under the breastbone. “Always thought I’d get back there, someday. If I tried hard enough.”

Aziraphale cupped the back of his skull gently, cradling his head. “You might still. You never know.”

“No. The stars aren’t for demons. They’re not meant for me anymore.” He sniffed hard and wiped his hand across his nose, expecting blood, but there was nothing. “Used to be able to hear them all the time, you know.”

“The stars?”

“The stars, yeah. The nebulae, the planets and the comets and the black holes and the rings. The Almighty. Easy to hear the Almighty, up there. Well, easier. Not so much, down here. You talk to God and the sky might as well be empty. Might as well be no stars, no planets, no Pillars of Creation… no God.” Crowley turned away and butted his head under Aziraphale’s chin, hiding from the starlight. “I wish I didn’t know, sometimes. I wish I couldn’t remember as much as I do. Some demons don’t remember what they were, what they did, before they Fell. But I do. I do. And I hate knowing that I’ll never get back there.”

Aziraphale said nothing. He only brushed his lips over Crowley’s hair, and held him while he cried, for the first time in six thousand years, for what he had lost.


	35. Guileless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The mouth worried you until you knew him and then it worried you more.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

Crowley insisted that it was the bit of bastard in Aziraphale that he’d fallen in love with first. That knack for unthinking, instantaneous, rule-breaking decisiveness at the most unexpected moments that made him so unpredictable as an angel and so entertaining as a friend.

It was a lie, though. The bastard qualities, the ones that made him so kind and so terrifying in one go, had been secondary, recognized only afterward and clung to in a desperate attempt to maintain an air of cool rebellious disenchantment, even though the only person he could ever hope to fool was himself. 

It was the smile. 

Aziraphale had smiled at him. 

First gratefully, and then accidentally. But he’d done it and Crowley had never once forgotten it, though there were plenty of other things he’d forgotten over six thousand years that he would have liked to remember (and plenty of things he remembered much too clearly that he would prefer to forget.)

Aziraphale had smiled at him, had curved his rosy lips at their corners in an expression of delight, at him. That was all. 

He’d known it from the start, too, known it with all the thundering certainty of looking over the side of a cloud into the pits of Hell and knowing that he was doomed. It had been like a sledgehammer to the temple and the spray of a firehose knocking him to the floor and the inexpressible significance of someone offering you hand over a rough patch in the trail. Crowley had known the second that Aziraphale had smiled at him that he would spend the rest of his existence doing everything possible to see it again. 

The other possibilities inherent in such a mouth had occurred to Crowley only later, much later, after the Arrangement had come into force. He’d learned some things about what mouths could do, by that point, and moreover he’d seen what Aziraphale enjoyed doing with his mouth – eating, talking, laughing. Reading aloud to Crowley, whose eyes were ill-suited to the comprehension of written language. Smiling. 

Mouths could do a lot of delightful things, and he wanted to see Aziraphale’s mouth doing all of them, even if he would never dream of asking for most of them outright. (Aziraphale would have gladly offered, if he’d known. And did offer, later, once he found out, to Crowley’s stumbling acquiescence.)

But it always came back to the smile. Sweet, artfully guileless, plaintive, delighted. 

Good thing he was already damned, was all Crowley could think, because he’d gladly have sold his soul for the privilege of seeing Aziraphale smile. 

And if Aziraphale had been just a little bit _more_ of a bastard, Crowley would have sworn that the angel had done it all on purpose.


	36. Lodgers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If dingy roadside motels could tell their stories, we would never stop weeping.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Picks up ideas from ["Obedience"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374796/chapters/47080501), ["But Rather Darkness Visible"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345177), and ["Sanctifying"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19374796/chapters/47543737).

"Coming to America was a mistake," Crowley muttered as they pulled into the motel parking lot indicated by the old painted sign, its letters only half-lit by struggling lights. "Always is. I can't think of one time that I've come to America and enjoyed myself."

Aziraphale cast his mind back... and couldn't think of one, either. "Needs must, unfortunately. We'll deal with this and then go home."

Crowley parked the rental car (No amount of demonic persuasion or angelic coercion had allowed them to bring the Bentley over without copious amounts of paperwork both mortal and immortal. Apparently the car had at some point been designated as a Satanic object and therefore couldn't be removed from the United Kingdom without Hell's permission, a fact which outraged Crowley to no end -- "It's my bloody car!" -- affronted Aziraphale on the Bentley's behalf.) and slewed an incredulous look at his companion. "Right. Like you're not going to make me stop at every used bookshop and roadside cake stand between here and..." He waved his hand vaguely. "Wherever."

"I won't. I promise!" Crowley grumbled and stared ahead of them, glaring at the motel's office, clenching and unclenching his fingers on the unfamiliar steering wheel. Aziraphale touched the back of his hand, briefly, gently. "I promise."

There was silence for a few moments more. "Go check in, angel," Crowley sighed. "I'll get the stuff out of the boot."

Aziraphale bustled into the office and made an attempt at small talk with the sleepy motel owner, and finally emerged with a key. "Room 23," he said, pointing down the line of doors. 

Crowley hefted a black knapsack and picked up a very natty tartan suitcase, and followed him, reluctantly, to Room 23. The door was a faded blue and the window was grimy, but the inside of the room was clean, if slightly musty-smelling. 

"Well, this is... nice," Aziraphale said, a bit doubtfully, but determined to be cheerful. 

Crowley's response was to hand him the suitcase, drop his knapsack onto the awful upholstered chair beside the window, and fall onto the bed like a tree abruptly chopped off at the knees. He pulled a pillow free and curled around it, drawing his knees up to his chest. 

"Oh dear." Aziraphale sat down beside him and carefully removed his glasses so that he wouldn't crush them against the too-soft pillow. "Well, you did warn me this might happen... Is it really as bad as all that?" 

"Nnghmm."

Aziraphale's face crumpled in sympathy, and he stroked Crowley's hair slowly, helping to ground him while he worked his way back towards some semblance of control. 

He understood the basic premise, of course: that human emotions could make places holy, and that the emotions could linger for a very long time, making some places painful or even impossible for demons to enter. Like all demons, Crowley could sense powerful, so-called 'negative' emotions like pain, terror, and sorry, but unlike the rest of his ilk, the presence of those emotions and the effect they had on particular places did not please him. 

It caused him pain.

"Do we need to find another room?" Aziraphale asked, after some indeterminate length of time. "There don't seem to be many other lodgers here. Apart from some very hard-working ladies of the night at the other end..."

Crowley grimaced and shook his head. "Wouldn't help. Most places like this are... like this. Just have to get used to it."

"Of course, my dear fellow," said Aziraphale, feeling helpless. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Ugh, this is so _stupid_... help me change?"

"Of course," Aziraphale said again, tenderly, understanding at once. Crowley could have easily shifted his garments with a thought, even in this state. But he wanted Aziraphale's presence, and his touch, and Aziraphale was happy to give them. He eased Crowley out of his tight, dark clothes and into pajamas, and helped him slide under the clean white sheets of the slightly lumpy but wonderfully large bed. 

He took a few minutes to disrobe and tend to necessities, and then joined Crowley under the covers, pulling him close and letting Crowley curl into a tight ball against his side. "Do you want to tell me about any of it?" Aziraphale asked. He rubbed Crowley's back steadily. "About what happened here?"

"Not tonight, angel. Not..." Crowley's breath hitched in his chest. "Not tonight." He sniffled hard and buried his face in the curve of Aziraphale's neck.


	37. Unpardonable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Break Up Kiss for meldanya44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post Break Up Kiss - The kiss that catches both of you off guard, but says I miss you, I’m sorry and please love me again all at once without any words being spoken.

A familiar but wholly unexpected black car screeched along the curb next to Aziraphale, and an equally familiar but far more precious figure jumped out. "Angel!" Crowley called, driven by desperation to halloo at him across a crowded street. "I'm sorry. I apologise," he said, coming up to Aziraphale with arms open in supplication. "Whatever I said, I didn't mean it." Aziraphale only looked at him, stunned, and thinking to himself, _You did mean it. And you were right. That's the whole problem._ "Work with me, I'm apologising here. Yes? Good. Get in the car."

Aziraphale felt his muscles contract in preparation for forward momentum, and had to force his corporeal form to _not_ no as his subconscious or soul or true ethereal being wanted to. "What? No!"

"The forces of Hell have figured out it was my fault," Crowley continued, more open and honest and scared than Aziraphale had ever seen him. "But we can run away together. Alpha Centauri!" He flung his arm up, gesturing to the sky that he so badly longed to return to, but his eyes were locked on Aziraphale, the one thing that had kept him tethered to Earth for six thousand years. "Lots of spare planets up there. Nobody would even notice us!"

"Crowley, you're being _ridiculous_ ," said Aziraphale, doing his best to convince himself that the words coming out of his mouth were the ones he actually wanted to be saying. "Look, I, I I'm quite sure if I can just just reach the right people, then I can get all this sorted out.

Crowley stared at him. "There aren't any right people. There's just God, moving in mysterious ways and not talking to any of us."

"Well, yes, and that is why I'm going to have a word with the Almighty, and then the Almighty will fix it."

"That won't happen." Crowley's entire demonic frame radiated anguish; it was impossible to ignore. As well as a number of other emotions that Aziraphale had spent the better part of his existence forcing himself to ignore. "You're so clever. How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?"

Aziraphale's mind went blank. Every word in every language he had ever learned, included celestial tongues never heard by mortal ear, went out of his brain, entirely overwritten by the momentary hurt of Crowley calling him stupid and the soaring bashful ecstasy of Crowley calling him clever.

So he gave up on words, and instead he did something that was perhaps unpardonable, or perhaps, yes, ineffable. Forcing himself for once to not think, he reached out and curled his fingers around the lapels of Crowley's jacket and pulled him forward, closing the intolerable gap of space between them and stretching up to press his lips to Crowley's mouth, not knowing what would happen next and not able to restrain himself for one second longer from giving of himself what he had always longed to give.

Six thousand years of resisting temptation was enough for any mere angel, surely.

His demon's lips were narrow and flexible and startled, but after a moment Crowley relaxed and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale's waist, and returned the kiss with so much of himself that Aziraphale began to worry that when they were done, there would be nothing of Crowley left.

"I forgive you," he whispered, when they finally, finally paused to collect a bit of themselves. "Don't go."

"Not without you, angel," Crowley replied, low and rough in his throat. He leaned his forehead against Aziraphale's. "Never without you."


	38. Special Occasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hesitant Kiss for cigaretteburnslikefairylights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hesitant Kiss - The type of kiss where their lips brush against each other’s a few times, breath fanning across each other’s faces as one waits for the other to make a move.

Crowley enjoyed the oysters. More than he'd expected to, so when Aziraphale suggested they make an evening of it, maybe hit up the baths, it seemed like a fine idea. Anything to wash the disgusting remnants of Caligula's palace from his brain.

Besides, Aziraphale had promised that there would be wine at the baths, and good wine, too.

"Wasn't sure I'd like this," Crowley commented to the angel, as they lounged in a small private cubicle with squares of linen draped casually over their nethers for the sake of modesty. (Not that Crowley personally had any real use for modesty, but again, after popping round to Caligula's place, any little gesture towards decorum was a windfall.) Steam hovered in the air around them, and the sweat was pouring down both of their faces.

He wasn't sure what he looked like, but Crowley thought Aziraphale looked as round and red and shiny as an apple. "But it's better than I thought."

"It's very nice," Aziraphale agreed, stretching his limbs luxuriously. He flopped onto his back with a contented sigh; the movement dislodged the linen over his waist and he made a token movement towards adjusting it. "Oh dear, I think the steam's starting to die away."

"Should I call the attendant or...?"

"No, no need. Just tip some of that water onto the stones in the middle, there's a good chap."

It was on the tip of Crowley's tongue to point out that he wasn't a good chap and therefore wasn't about to be doing an angel any favours. But then again, Aziraphale _had_ bought him lunch ("Oh, my dear fellow, I insist! Your first oyster is a special occasion!"), and Crowley had to admit that he looked delightfully relaxed and happy, and didn't really want to ruin that.

In point of fact, he looked absolutely slothful.

That would make up for Caligula's, Crowley decided. Temping an angel to succumb to gluttony and sloth. Even if that was no more Crowley's idea than the hideous orgy at the palace had been; Aziraphale would have gone for oysters and a steam bath with or without Crowley.

If anyone had been tempted today, it wasn't the angel in the room.

Crowley slithered off his stone bench - not too difficult, he was completely drenched, for all that he ought to have been used to heat - leaving the little modesty towel behind. He reached for the little pail and dipper near the door... and paused.

Aziraphale lay on his back, with his arms folded behind his head. His cloud of curls was plastered against his scalp and his eyes were closed, and his shining face wore an expression of the most absolute rapt peace. There was even a little smile tucked into the corners of his delicious red lips. "Oh..."

Crowley saw Aziraphale as though for the first time, and he was beautiful.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale sounded so wonderfully drowsy. "Is something wrong?"

_Everything,_ Crowley thought, gazing down at him forlornly, _I tempted an angel and it backfired on me._

Aziraphale opened his eyes to the sight of a very despondent demon beside his bench. "Crowley? He sat up, a sudden flush of concern chasing away all his lovely contentment. "What's happened?"

Crowley tipped his head to one side, marveling sadly. A strange, shyly daring look flitted across Aziraphale's face, and he reached for Crowley's hand and drew him forward to stand between his thighs. Crowley went without a murmur, but gulped when Aziraphale lifted his hand to Crowley's cheek. "This, um. Is this you or me?"

"Is what?"

"This. You or me. Doing the tempting."

"That's your job." Aziraphale's fingers were so warm on his skin that Crowley felt scorched.

"That's as may be, angel, but--" Crowley leaned down - was guided down by Aziraphale's hand? - was gently pushed down by some other unseen hand? - and met with his lips the lips that Aziraphale raised up to him.

He'd never kissed another being - it wasn't the sort of thing demons or angels went in for - but for the first time, Crowley understood why the humans liked it so much. The contact with another sent a flash through his physical body and did beautiful, painful things to the being at his body's heart. It was agony, and he wanted time to stop so that he could stay in that moment forever, with the angel's hands on his face, tasting ozone and oysters and sweat and sweet wine and apples on Aziraphale's lips.


	39. Habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Stop trying to save me!” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (meldanya44)

Crowley pulled back from the kiss with a solemn, searching expression. His hand was on Aziraphale's face and was terribly gentle. "Are you still afraid?" he asked, his thumb stroking the soft skin of the angel's cheek. 

Aziraphale's long-ingrained dutifulness urged him to lean away from the touch of the lean fingers, before anyone saw them together, and it was only because he truly didn't want to move that he resisted. "It's a hard habit to break," he confessed, lowering his eyes, and feeling more ashamed than he cared to admit. 

"Why?" 

And that was Crowley all over, always. Always asking questions, always needling, probing, often irritating but never ever unwelcome, except when the questions he raised were ones that Aziraphale had spent so long trying to ignore. 

"Because they won't leave us alone forever?" Crowley slowly brought his other hand up, to frame Aziraphale's face. "Is that it? You don't want--"

"I _do_ want," said Aziraphale quickly. He didn't want there to be any mistakes about that, not anymore. "I've always wanted--well, nearly always. Close enough to always. But I can't... I've... Crowley."

"I'm here, angel. I'm _here_."

Aziraphale took a deep breath. It wasn't needed, but it was welcome, in a bizarre way. "Every time, in the past, when we've... come close to admitting... feelings... I've never allowed myself to... oh, damn, _damn!_ " He was going to cry and it was all so pointless and ludicrous that he felt like screaming along with it. "I've never cared about what might happen to _me_."

Crowley's lips thinned into a fond smile, and his eyes were tender. "Don't I know it. I've lost count of how many times you saved my neck or covered my arse, when it could've gone very badly for you. But that's always been my job, looking out for you."

"Yes, and my job has been looking out for _you_. Making sure that neither side ever discovered how much you helped me. How often you saved me."

"They know now."

"That makes it worse!" Crowley tipped his head to one side, studying the angel with a particular intent expression that Aziraphale usually only saw when Crowley was wrestling with an especially nasty crossword puzzle. "You're not taking me seriously at all," said Aziraphale, turning away.

The hands on his face didn't let him get far, and Crowley did _not_ kiss him again, which would have reduced Aziraphale to a hysterical wreck, but dropped his hands from Aziraphale's cheek to the side of his neck, and let his thumbs feather ever so lightly over the pulse in his throat. 

"There's never been a moment," said Crowley, very calmly and softly, "when I haven't taken you seriously. And now I need you to listen to me, and understand that I'm also being serious."

"...I, wha--all right."

"Stop trying to save me."

Aziraphale flinched. "I've never... dearest, I couldn't save you if I tried. You're... that's not for me to decide."

"Oh, I know that. My soul, or what's left of it, is beyond you. I made peace with that a long time ago." Crowley's fingers, on the back of Aziraphale's neck, tightened the smallest fraction, just enough to urge Aziraphale an inch closer to him. "But that isn't what I meant, you know."

"...I'm never going to stop worrying about you. About them coming for you."

Crowley's eyes went slightly half-lidded, a rare sign of trust, and shook his head. "I'm not theirs to claim." 

A spark of enlightenment caused Aziraphale's vision to swim for a moment, and he leaned forward, laying his head on Crowley's shoulder to steady himself. 

"Neither am I," Aziraphale whispered, at last. 

Crowley's hands wandered carefully from the back of his neck to his pale cloud of hair, stroking softly.


	40. Blurred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cross my heart and hope to die.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)
> 
> Rated Mature for torture and demon!whump.

Crowley wasn't sure how much more of this he could take. 

But that was the worst of infernal torments. You had to take it all, because there was no end, unless they decided to end you. 

And he'd lost his chance at that after that whole thing with the Antichrist and the Apocalypse that hadn't actually managed to happen. Not that he'd personally done much with that business (he wasn't modest but there were only so many lies he could tell himself), but he had certainly done enough.

But still. Surely even that transgression didn't warrant... _this_. 

"'Bout time you stopped screaming," said Hastur, sounding grimly pleased with his handiwork and that of his minions. "Thought you'd never stop."

Crowley spat out yet more blood and other assorted fluids that had leaked into his mouth over the course of this torture session. At first he'd tried identifying them all by taste, as a means of distracting himself, but they all blurred together now. "Come on, fellas," he said, dredging up what he hoped was a charming grin, "aren't you tired of this yet?"

"Not yet. Not for a long while yet. The boss has it in for you, Crowley. Something real special. We're just killing time while he gets it ready." There was a small, sharp cracking noise, and then a brief, stronger-than-usual whiff of sulfur hit Crowley's nose. 

"Hey, hey, you know the rules. No smoking in Hell."

Hastur inhaled deeply and then blew the smoke into Crowley's face. It seared at his optic nerves, making him hiss, and it stunk, to boot. "Got to break every rule at least once. And this is an occasion."

The heat of the cigarette end moved closer to Crowley's face, and he steeled himself. This wasn't new by now. It wasn't pleasant, either, but it was still better than the needles, and really, what could they do to him at this point that was worse than what he knew was coming--except that was a dangerous thing to think, 'how could things be worse,' because Crowley knew, he _knew_ , it was Hell's forte, things could always get--

"Stop."

Crowley's heart leapt so hard it almost bounded out of his bleeding chest. 

Aziraphale.

"He's mine."

He could hear Hastur's grin dripping in globs from his corpse-like face. "Dandy little principality, come to save your boyfriend?"

"Yes. And I've come for him." 

Aziraphale's quiet confidence was apparently enough to shake them. The circle of demons surrounding Crowley parted and he saw--

He saw?

\--Aziraphale's bright, unsullied form, gleaming with a barely-subdued radiance that made Hastur and the others scuttle back like cockroaches. He stepped briskly past them and knelt down where Crowley was chained. "Oh, my dear fellow," he murmured. "I'm so sorry, I know I'm late."

"Late... wha... Angel, you--you?"

"I promised. To find you if we lost one another again, remember? 'Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick--"

"Please," Crowley said tiredly, gazing at the angel with empty eye sockets, "don't finish that rhyme."

"You can't do this," Hastur spluttered, his voice climbing frantically. "He's a traitor! He's one of ours and he's a traitor! He's ours to--"

"He's not yours." Aziraphale lightly pressed two fingers to Crowley's forehead. "Not anymore. And you've overstepped your authority this time. Sorry, Crowley, this is going to sting a bit."

"After what I've been--" Crowley's quip died in his throat and was devoured by a scream that rivaled those of the souls suffering in Abbadon, and then he slumped forward in Aziraphale's arms, free of his chains. 

Aziraphale gently cradled the dirty red head against his shoulder. Slitted yellow eyes gazed groggily up at him for a moment, and then closed. "That's right, my dear, sleep. You're safe now."

Hastur continued to shriek and babble at the angel absconding calmly with his prisoner, but somehow, neither he nor his attending demons had the courage to follow them up and out of Hell. They were too busy contemplating the phrase "overstepping their authority" and being terrified of what it might mean.


	41. Fading

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I lost our baby.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (xandwyrms)

There was a particular bench in St. James’s Park where Crowley and Aziraphale had liked to meet, before they’d moved in together. Since then, it had become a favorite place to reunite after one or the other had been away on business. 

Crowley sat down and waited for Aziraphale. It had been a few years. Too long for his liking, but not long enough for what Aziraphale had hoped. 

The clouds overhead blotted out the sun, turning the world gray and drab, until the only bit of brightness in the world was Aziraphale’s pale hair, when it finally came into view. 

The angel approached slowly, eyes downcast, fingers clasped before his fading waistcoat. When he sat down at last, it was with more space between them than had existed for a long time. 

Crowley let him have that space, and the silence, for as long as he needed. 

“I lost him,” said Aziraphale at last.

Crowley knew that already. He wished he didn’t; he would have liked at least a little bit of fleeting hope. But he’d been cc’d on the memo by accident. (Whoever had taught Hastur about Reply All deserved eternal damnation.) 

“I was never… I was fond of Warlock, you know.”

“I know.” Crowley touched his knee. “I know.”

“I never got to spend as much time with him as you did, of course. And he didn’t like me half as much as he did you… but for all that, I was fond of him. He was… well, he was our godson. Our child, in an odd way. And after we found out about Adam, we fell down on that job. Me even more so.”

“…Well, you’re not wrong,” said Crowley miserably. 

“So when I discovered what kind of life he was leading in America, I had to try to… I had to try.”

“I know you did, angel. I know. I wish I could have helped, but…”

Aziraphale covered Crowley’s hand with his own. “Somehow, I think the two of us together would have done even worse.”

“You did everything you could.”

“And it still wasn’t enough. I should’ve… I should have been able to—” Aziraphale broke off, twitching with the effort of controlling himself. “Is he going to be all right, do you think?”

“They thought he was the heir of Hell once. And he’s proof that we both fucked up. He’ll be fine down there.” Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s fingers and then stood up, pulling Aziraphale to his feet. “Come on, angel. Let’s go home.”


	42. Contingency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re Satan.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (meldanya44)

Crowley looked up at Aziraphale with bleary, jaundiced eyes. "Gimme the bottle."

"Not on your life," said Aziraphale. "You've had more than enough for one night."

"Ah'll be the judge'a that," Crowley slurred, standing with great care and reaching for the wine. Aziraphale held it out of his reach without much trouble. Crowley glared at him, glarefully ineffectual. "You're Satan, y'know that?"

"Drunk or not, that's earning you a night alone on the sofa."

"Aww, c'mon!"

"No! Crowley, you can barely stand upright. Now, I need you to sober up and--"

The demon's eyes flared weakly. "I," he declared loftily, "doan wanna sober up. I am not ready to think straight. In fact, I may never be ready to think straight again." He grabbed for the bottle, missed, and went sprawling across the table, which promptly flipped over and landed on top of him, glasses, empty bottles and all. "Nngk. Wah. Bastard."

"You did that to yourself, you know," Aziraphale muttered, rubbing his forehead. He cleaned up the mess and righted the table with a swift gesture, moving it a few feet away from where Crowley was lying face-down on the carpet.

"Nnngh..." He heaved himself onto his back and gazed up at Aziraphale with blank dismay. "There's nah--nothin' t' be done about tonight, anyway, an' I doan wanna think about it anymore."

"I know." Aziraphale sighed and sat down next to Crowley, folding his legs primly. "I don't particularly want to think about it myself. But we need to. We have to consider the possibilities and make contingency plans for if--"

"T'morrow, angel." Groaning loudly, Crowley dragged himself to his feet, swayed and slumped hard against the bookshelves, and then slouched towards the stairs. "Contingency plans tomorrow, sleep tonight."

"Crowley, if you go to bed without sobering up--well, you know what happened last time!"

"Yeah, I know, disgusting _and_ embarrassing. Sleep on the couch if it worries you. I'll toss you down a blanket."

"Crowley--"

"Night, angel."

Aziraphale watched him slowly and carefully crawl up the stairs, and worried.


	43. Vanilla

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn’t have to ask.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

"Stay with me tonight," Aziraphale says, after the Apocalypse goes pear-shaped, after they've scared Heaven and Hell into new and hopefully better incarnations, after the park and the Ritz and several delightful hours in the back of the bookshop, drinking and talking as though it was any other night. 

But it wasn't any other night and they both knew it. 

Crowley had spent many a night on Aziraphale's couch, sleeping off the wine he was too far gone to sober off, and sometimes spent days there in the shape of a snake when he had nothing better to do in the winter. It was much nicer than his flat. The bookshop was warm and smelled like vanilla and Aziraphale and there were never any rude awakenings there. 

His dark, spartan apartment did have one thing going for it now. Something fresh. Now it smelled like vanilla and Aziraphale too. 

Still, he thought, pulling off his sunglasses and ruffling his hair, and watching Aziraphale's face and how he was holding in his breath. Still. Smells are nice an' all but they don't make very nice pillows. 

And he knew Aziraphale's bedroom upstairs, for all it wasn't used very often, was warm and dark, and the bed was soft, though not as soft as an angel's feathers or an angel's hair, or an angel's arms curling around his bony torso and pulling him close in spite of _everything_ and finding the places where softness and angles best fit together. 

"I'll stay," Crowley says, and feels something soft and aching clutch his heart when Aziraphale exhales and smiles his smile like the sun coming up over new snow. "You didn't even have to ask."

"Of course I did. I couldn't just take you by the hand and lead you upstairs without so much as a by your leave."

"Yes," says Crowley, fitting actions to words by catching hold of Aziraphale’s hand as he brushes his fingers, half-shy and half-daring, over Crowley's shoulder in passing. "You could."


	44. The Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s six o’clock in the morning, you’re not having vodka.” (Crowley) (meldanya44)

"The problem is," Crowley said, his words slurring into the empty flat like inebriated snakes falling out of a sidecar. "The problem is... angels. B'cuz, we're all angels, en't we. Demons're jus'... messed up angels. Fallen. Crashed. Tripped over a crack in th' celestul sidewalk'n went down flat on our faces, some of us. We're all angels, an'..." He gulped down the rest of his wine and peered suspiciously at the empty glass, but it refused to refill. 

He heaved a sigh that would have done a moody teenager proud, and then hauled himself out of his chair in a tangle of limbs that either had too many joints or not enough joints, depending on the time of day and how much attention he was paying to himself, and went into the kitchen. 

"Problem is," he muttered, staring grouchily at his choices of liquor, and forcing himself to sober up just enough to pick something halfway decent (although every kind of alcohol in Crowley's flat was at least three-quarters decent), "problem is, we aren't all that different, when you get down to basics. To base elements. We like to think we are... but we're not."

He took down a particular bottle, then caught sight of his wristwatch and the time on the face. "Oh, hell no. It is six o'clock in the morning and you are _not_ having vodka. Always a bad idea, morning vodka. Too many revolutions, can't keep 'em straight when I'm sober, let alone when I'm drunk."

Reluctantly, Crowley put the bottle back, closed his liquor cabinet, and snapped a gloomy finger at the coffee pot instead. 

"The problem," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and wishing he'd gone to bed instead of staying up half the night being maudlin at himself, "is what to do about angels and demons not being all that different. Because that opens up a whole bunch of avenues I am not prepared to deal with at six in the morning."

He poured himself a coffee... and then shrugged and added a slug of vodka anyway.


	45. Valor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Flea markets don’t carry fleas, you know?” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (xandwyrms)

There were many things about living with Crowley that Aziraphale had not accurately anticipated. He'd never lived with anyone before, of course there was going to be a period of adjustment, and at least he _knew_ Crowley as well as anyone could hope to know one's best friend of six thousand years. 

And in hindsight, he should have guessed that Crowley would be a bit... fussy. Considering how often he chided Aziraphale for the state of the dust in the shop and how often Aziraphale had to threaten Crowley with smiting or worse to get him to stop arranging the books by title or subject or type of paper, et cetera, Aziraphale realized that he really ought to have guessed. 

"Crowley, darling," he sighed, for the twentieth time, "it's _fine_. I promise. I checked!"

Crowley, who had donned a frilled and flowered apron to cover his black shirt and jeans while he worked, turned exasperated yellow eyes on his beloved angel. "Bollocks," he said succinctly. Aziraphale winced, for form's sake. "You haven't used a miracle in weeks, anymore than I have. And this chair is filthy." He slapped the seat cushion to prove his point and dust flew up like a small volcanic eruption. "Who knows what else could be hiding in here? Bedbugs, mice, fleas..." 

"They don't actually sell fleas in flea markets, you know. And I didn't get it at a flea market or a jumble sale, one of the neighbors was giving it away."

"...I don't even want to know what their house is like, if this is the state of their furniture." Crowley finishing cleaning out the small upholstery vacuum and resumed his attack. 

Aziraphale decided that valor was the better part of discretion, and retired from the battle.


	46. Gentleman

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re bleeding all over my carpet.” (Aziraphale & Crowley) (anonymous)

"You know," Aziraphale sighed, straightening his cravat, as he was wont to do when annoyed, "I do believe you're acquiring bad habits." 

Crowley glared up at him from the sofa, where he was currently sprawled on his back and holding a wet rag to his nose. "'M a demon," he muttered, "it's what I do."

" _No_ , what you 'do' is encourage bad habits in other people. At least, that's what you're supposed to do. Instead you're in my brand-new bookshop and bleeding all over my brand-new carpet _again_." Aziraphale drew up a little brocaded footstool and plopped down so that he could still look disapproving but with less discomfort to both of their necks. "That's four times in as many weeks!"

The demon said nothing, only continued to nurse his bloody nose and look sorry for himself. 

"What was it this time?" asked Aziraphale tartly. "Mugged in an alley? Or Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Gym?"

"Ehhh, weh, err, the latter. Possibly."

"Why? For goodness' sake, _why_ , Crowley?"

"Goodness's got nothing to do with it," said Crowley, truthfully enough.

"So this was for work?"

"Mmhgh. Ow." And it was. Mostly. 

Mostly it was for the sake of Crowley oozing his way into London aristocracy in a less salubrious setting than one of the many gentleman's clubs. Not that there wasn't vice in plenty to be found at Almack's or White's, but it was far easier to just go someplace where wealthy gents paid to beat up slightly less wealthy gents and then everybody bet on the fights. Lots of dodgy dealings to choose from, plenty of innocent fresh-faced lads to tempt into having just a little flutter. 

It was definitely not because he and Aziraphale had happened to pass an illicit boxing match a month ago and he had seen the angel's eyes resting admiringly on the muscles and movement of the boxers, even as he averted his gaze a second or two too late and spoke with professional distaste of the brutality of such a 'sport'.

Definitely not. That would be patently ridiculous. 

"I do have a shop to run, you know," Aziraphale had continued, still officially annoyed with Crowley, although the demon's keen ears picked out the note of worry and, God forgive him (They wouldn't.), grabbed it in both hands and ran with it.

"I'll go," Crowley sighed, putting just a hint of resignation and embarrassment into his words as he rose. "Might've known I'd be inconveniencing you. I'll be sure and bleed on someone else's rug next time."

Aziraphale's hand was suddenly on his shoulder, light and elegant and strong. "I didn't say that." He pulled away the damp rag gently, and Crowley felt a quick sharp pain in his head. He sneezed once, and the nosebleed was gone. "Now you just lie there for a bit. I've got some new bottles of a rather nice French brandy I've been wanting to try."

"What about the shop?" asked Crowley weakly, hiding his smug grin behind Aziraphale's turned back. "Your customers?" 

"Oh, don't bother about them. They're a nuisance. Always coming in here wanting to buy things."

"The nerve," Crowley murmured, and smiled.


	47. Scorched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You know this wasn’t my choice.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

Crowley sat on the edge of the bed in the upstairs room from the shop, and felt his cheeks burning as he slowly took off his shirt to let Aziraphale see to his injuries, and he was more than a little annoyed by that. And on top of that, he was... nervous

They'd seen one another naked before, of course. In six thousand years, they had been in a lot of situations where clothing had been optional and some where it had been altogether unnecessary, and anyway, corporations were simply tools that their respective sides used to further their own agendas (ineffable or otherwise) and what the bodies looked like didn't matter. 

Until the only side left was their own, and the bodies they had were the only ones they were ever likely to have. 

"I never asked for this, you know," he muttered, trying not to flinch when he felt Aziraphale's hands on his skin. "I didn't... oh..."

"Sorry," said Aziraphale, pulling away. "Did I hurt you?"

"No, just... been a while. Since anyone... y'know."

"Ah." Very gently, Aziraphale tried again, laying his hands on Crowley's shoulder blade, to steady him, and on his upper spine, between the bases of his wings, where the wounds were the ugliest. "Any better?"

"You're not hurting me, Aziraphale." Even the healing, when it began, didn't hurt the way it ought to; an angel's grace, knitting together the flesh of a demon? That should have scorched like its own special kind of Hell. 

In a way, it did. 

"You know this wasn't my choice," Crowley said again, some time later, when all of the wounds and most of the immediate agony had been reduced to nothing but aches and scar tissue. "I never thought... I only wanted to know things. To understand things."

Aziraphale's touch was different now. Gentler, softer, combing through the sooty black feathers with care. "I know, my dear. I wish I had answers for you."

"And once you're kicked out, there's no going back. Lucifer was the only way forward. If you can call it that. He said he could make it all stop hurting." 

"And he did. For a while. Until you betrayed him."

"That's the thing about the Devil. He always keeps his word. His exact, literal word. So you've always got to be sure you _know_ what the contract is."

Crowley closed his eyes and leaned into the angel's touch, the way he'd wanted to do for centuries, and even managed to keep most of his muscles from screaming that they would be in danger if they got too close. He had always known that the things they could do to him in Hell were nothing compared to what they could do to Aziraphale in Heaven. 

Now Aziraphale knew that, too. And he didn't seem to care. So Crowley stayed where he was, letting the tension and pain seep from his body until he was lying back limp in Aziraphale's arms, his head pillowed on a strong plump shoulder. 

"Nice, this," he murmured. "Feels... safe."

"As safe as houses, dear fellow," Aziraphale returned, with a soft, trembling smile that nevertheless held a great deal of steel in it. 

Crowley sought out and found Aziraphale's hands, and laced their fingers together.


	48. Attached

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can love him but you can’t keep him.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (booknerd0612)

Officially, Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis the gardener didn't join the Dowling household until little Warlock was five, but his unofficial godfathers were keeping tabs on the house long before that, and even, very unofficially, visiting the baby. 

"We can't keep doing this, you know," Aziraphale said, after the infant's mother had slipped away to her own bed, and after the nursery attendant had unaccountably decided to turn in early for the night. Somehow, she just _knew_ that baby Warlock would be fine by himself for one night, and anyway, her room was right next to the nursery, so she would hear him if he cried. (She wouldn't.) "Eventually someone's sure to notice."

"We're just doing our job, angel," said Crowley, bending over the cot. "Nobody can fault us for that."

"They can if either side stumbles on us here together. We'll--what are you doing?" Aziraphale watched in dismay as the demon gently lifted the sleeping baby from his bed and cradled him against his chest. "How do you even know how to do that?"

Crowley raised an eyebrow at him. "What, six thousand years and you've never held a baby?"

"As a matter of fact, I've specifically avoided them. After the first two."

Crowley didn't look at him but he did make a sympathetic face, and then backed carefully into a rocker. Warlock slept soundly, held in the arms of his godparent. 

"Crowley," said Aziraphale, very softly, putting a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You mustn't get too attached. You remember what happened the last time."

"Last time, first time, Cain or Abel, it's always the same." Very lightly, Crowley brushed his fingers across Warlock's soft forehead. "I know I can't keep him. We never can. Doesn't mean I can't... you know. While there's still time."

Aziraphale sighed. "No... no, I suppose not."


	49. Conspiratory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them and their response is “you’re safe with me” – that’s intimacy.” (The Them) (anonymous)

They talked about it, eventually. All of them wanted to talk about it right away, the day after it happened, but all of them decided that the others might need some time. Especially Adam. 

For a few days, Pepper and Brian and Wensleydale were especially considerate of their leader. They didn't ask for any new exciting games and they took turns paying for his ice cream. 

Adam appreciated the gesture, but eventually, it did get annoying. 

"You were all really brave at the airfield," he said, sitting on a log. Something about the grand throne they'd built felt wrong now. Maybe it was the skull. "I'm glad you're all my friends."

Pepper and Brian put down their toy swords, and Wensleydale stopped playing with the airplane he had built out of balsa wood and glue. They all looked at him for a second or two. "We're glad you're _our_ friend," Pepper said, speaking for all of them. 

Adam still felt unsteady. "Even if I am the son of the Devil?"

It was the first time any of them had said it out loud. From the way the others reacted – Pepper rolled her eyes, Brian frowned, and Wensleydale looked thoughtful – he wasn't sure they liked it any better now than before. 

"Actually," said Wensleydale, "you're not really the son of the Devil. Because Mr. Young's your father."

"'S not what he meant," said Brian. "He means, like, his _real_ father."

"But Mr. Young _is_ his real father," said Pepper. "He did the work. That's what Adam meant, at the airfield."

"You're right. But Brian's right, too. I've got two dads, I guess." Adam drummed his fingers on his log. Dog pawed at his leg and whined, so Adam scratched his head instead. "Not like Marcus at school. Like... a father and a stepdad. Except my stepdad's my real dad. My father's just the one who made me... weird."

"No," said Pepper, grinning, "you're weird because you're Adam. You're just supposed to be weird."

"Can you still do those things you did yesterday?" Wensleydale asked. "Like, flying, and making things appear and disappear?"

Adam thought. "I think so. But I shouldn't. Not unless I have to."

"Or unless it's really fun?" said Brian hopefully. 

"Or unless it's _really_ fun," Adam agreed. "But you have to keep it a secret."

"Actually," Wensleydale said, standing up, "we really do. Otherwise you might get burned as a witch."

The four friends shared a conspiratory grin, and then once again, Pepper spoke for them all. "You're safe with us, Adam," she promised. "Always."


	50. Untidy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The thing about words is that meanings can twist just like a snake.” (Warlock Dowling) (xandwyrms)

Warlock (he tended to go by Warren when he was on campus; it just made his life easier) wrapped his hands around the big white mug and just sat for a minute, letting the warmth seep into him. "Dad told me you'd died," he said at last. 

The red-haired person sitting across the table from him in the coffee shop tilted his head to one side. "I suppose that's true, in a sense," said the male-looking person that Warlock had known in childhood as Nanny Ashtoreth. "The thing about words, you see..." A little hint of a Scottish accent crept into his voice. "Is that meanings can twist and turn just like a snake. Amazing things, words. Amazing and terrible and cruel."

"Tell me about it," Warlock muttered, pushing a hank of dark hair out of his eyes. 

"Och, still so untidy."

He looked up sharply and saw the normally stern face smiling at him. "So, uh… can I still call you Nanny? Or should it be 'Anthony' now? Or, I don't know. Mr. Crowley."

"Whatever you’re comfortable with, dear. For you, I’ll answer to anything." Nanny stirred sugar into his tea, just as always, although looking back, Warlock couldn't remember Nanny ever actually drinking that tea. "You've been well?"

Warlock shrugged. "I guess so. I mean, better, since Mom and Dad split up."

"Yes, I heard about all of that. Dreadful behavior on the Ambassador's part."

"Former ambassador. And then... well, I can't say I'm not sorry, he is my father, but..."

"I'd say he got just what was coming to him," said Nanny.

"Yeah, same. Mom was a mess for a while, but she seems happier now." He looked down at his coffee, but looked up again when Nanny reached out and patted his hand. "I'm really glad to see you," said Warlock, feeling a lump in his throat.


	51. Scourge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you going on for the rest of your life, stumbling into respectability and having to be dug out again?" (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

A tsking sound greeted Aziraphale as he came into the bookshop after a very pleasant evening. "Another late night in society, angel?"

Aziraphale looked up to see a lanky, red-headed figure lounging atop several tall bookcases. This was an impressive feat, as there were perhaps five inches of space between the bookcases and the ceiling, and the interloper was looking languid and bored and not uncomfortably squashed at all. 

"If you must know, Crowley, I was enjoying the hospitality of some very respectable friends." He doffed his hat and sent his stick clattering into the umbrella stand by the door. "I'll have you know I'm considered extremely good company by some of London's best people."

"Is that so?" Crowley slithered down from the bookshelves without putting a hair out of place and reassembled himself so close to Aziraphale that their noses practically touched. "Dear me, all these flirtations with respectability, that'll never do. Are you going on for the rest of your life, stumbling into respectability and having to be dug out again?"

"I don't see how that is any business of yours," said the bookshop owner primly. "I'm an angel, being respectable is part of my job description. Besides, there are a great many people of quality who need to be encouraged to be respectable in practice as well as in theory."

"Ngh, well, that's a lost cause. You should come out to Whitechapel with me tonight."

Aziraphale looked at him in utter bewilderment. "Whatever for?"

"Oh, you know. The old business."

"...Ah. You have some sort of assignment you want me to negate?"

Crowley rolled his shoulders in a very eloquent shrug for someone who didn't always have shoulders. "Apparently I need to go and tempt a bunch of streetwalkers away from leaving the life and succumbing to reform. Not that I mind tempting people into vice and degradation, you know that, but it doesn't seem very sporting to kick a bunch of unfortunate women who're just trying to make a living."

"No, no indeed..." Aziraphale fussed absently with the flower in his buttonhole while he thought. 

Yellow eyes watched him intently from behind their lenses. "And you know it'd be a lot easier for you to influence them to become 'respectable' again if they had decent jobs or family to go back to. Maybe if they could, I dunno... triumph over the scourge of drink?"

"Yes... yes, I think I could manage that."

"Fantastic." Crowley clapped Aziraphale on the back and caught up the angel's hat again. "Let's go, angel, the night's a-wastin'."


	52. Indeterminate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “In the night, to be feral is to be a possibility./Even when outlined in lace.” (Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

Crowley woke up, stretched, and wondered if it was still the same century as when he'd gone to bed. He eyed the dust on his nightstand, and from years of practice, sized up the time as having been no more than three years. A very restful nap, all things considered. 

He dressed and walked unseen around the city for a while, tasting the sins percolating in the air, checking to see if Victoria was still queen and making note of the new fashions. Men's fashions were mostly the same, as usual, but he rather liked the new trend in women's walking costumes, and definitely appreciated that the bustle had finally gone out. (The fact that he had been influential in the creation of the bustle is one that will not be commented on.) Crowley popped into a dressmaker's shop and took a look at an evening dress under construction, and was impressed. 

Well, he'd been making do with gent's clothes for a few decades now, and not only were the outfits becoming boring, he was deeply tired of his own masculinity of person. Time for a change. 

A few finger snaps later, and an Effort made to give himself the appropriate body parts to make sure he was getting the fit right, and he was walking the streets as a somberly-clad woman with dark red hair elegantly dressed, of exquisite taste and indeterminate age. 

Much better, she decided, with a little sigh of contentment, and began making her way towards Soho and a certain bookshop to show off her new dress.


	53. Token

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And I said to the star, ‘Consume me.’” (Aziraphale) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

It was said amongst those who knew him that Mr. A.Z. Fell, the mad but kind bookseller who kept a shop in Soho, that he would happily search the globe for any book a customer might want or repair heirloom volumes with the skill of a true master, but would sooner cut off his own arm than sell a book out from under his roof. 

It was also said of him, by those who knew him somewhat better, that he was a man of almost unquenchable appetites. For food and wine and books, for the theatre and fine clothing and pleasurable company, he was as a moth to a flame, and easily consumable by eager tradesmen. The tailors and wine merchants and hairdressers of London always brightened when they saw him approaching their window, and it was rumored that he had saved more than one eating house from bankruptcy through the bill of a single night. 

But there was one class of tradesman who never saw the inside of Mr. Fell's purse. Although he adored an interesting new cravat or an exciting cologne, the allure of the jeweler's held no appeal to him. His pocket watch and chain were of the plainest design, and if any intimate friend made him a present of stickpins or snuffboxes, no one could say, for he never displayed them. 

His only vanity in that direction was a ring he wore upon the little finger of his right hand, a curious item of old gold without any stones, and cast in a peculiar design that resembled nothing so much as a pair of swan's wings. And whenever he was asked about the ring, Mr. Fell would smile in his amiable way, and sip his tea or his port, and say simply that it was a token of appreciation for services rendered, and change the subject.


	54. Sharp Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I am burning in stars/I am feverishly filled with stars.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (cigaretteburnslikefairylights)

"Come with me, angel," Crowley whispered happily into Aziraphale's ear. "I want to show you something."

"Come with you where?"

"Outside, out into the back garden."

"...Crowley, it's freezing out. And there's snow on the ground."

"I know. Don't worry," he promised, tugging at Aziraphale insistently, "I'll keep you warm."

A little doubtful but always far more able to trust his personal demon than the Almighty had perhaps intended (then again, perhaps She had), Aziraphale allowed Crowley to pull him out of bed and into his slippers and wrap him in a quilt, and lead him outside. 

There was a neatly dug path leading from their cottage's back door down the slope and up the rise to the meadow, and Aziraphale was so busy looking down (trying to keep his footing and also trying to decide whether Crowley had miracled the snow cleared or if he had actually been out with a shovel) that he didn't notice what Crowley had brought him out to see until they reached a clear space in the meadow, with a blanket and a fire and a camp stove with a steaming kettle, and finally, Aziraphale looked up. 

"Oh!" he gasped. 

The sky above them was so painfully clear and so very full of stars, and the snow around the angel and demon so smooth and clean, that it was nearly as bright as day, and the rise of the meadow was high enough that the sky formed an almost perfect upturned bowl around them. Aziraphale couldn't see their cottage or the village, only a bit of velvety blue-black between the sharp points of a hundred million stars.

"We're absolutely surrounded," Aziraphale marveled, momentarily forgetting the cold.

"Isn't it _grand_?" Crowley's narrow face was split into a delighted grin, and once Aziraphale was seating on a very plump cushion with a hot mug of tea in his hands, he flopped down on the picnic blanket, slithered under the quilt and under Aziraphale’s arm, rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and sighed in contentment. "It's almost like being back there."


	55. Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He cannot ravish; he can only woo.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (scorpling)

"D'you ever." Aziraphale wrinkled his nose and searched out the rest of his question with both hands. "Think about sex?"

Crowley stared at him through the bottom of his empty wineglass. "Wassat?"

"Sex. Intercourse. Fucking. Intercourse. Carnal knowledge. D'you ever think about it?"

Crowley made a confused face and found a bottle with which to refill his glass. "I s'pose? I mean, it's work-related. Fornication, adultery, sometimes masturbation. Easy temptations."

"No no no, I mean d'you – is that bottle empty? No worries, I've got another. D'you ever think about having sex?"

"What, with you?"

"No!" lied Aziraphale, like a liar. "Good lord, no, never. An angel an' a demon, doin'..." He made a crude hand gesture, which was difficult with a glass in one hand and a wine bottle in the other. "Prob'ly explode."

"Hnngh, hmm," said Crowley, unaware of how he was shattering his friend's guilty hopes. "Good point."

"Jus'... jus' in general. With a human, say. For argument's sake."

"Nah." Crowley waved a dismissive hand, and nearly knocked over the previous six bottles they'd demolished over the course of the night. "Can't say the thought ever crossed muh mind. Doesn't sound 'specially appealing t' me. An' demons can't do... that, y'know. Can't, uh..." His face went on a deeply soused journey. "Can't really get it up, y'know. No ravishing for us. Just wooing humans into temptation."

"Oh," said Aziraphale, disappointed.

"Why d'you ask, anyway?"

"Oh," said Aziraphale again, more forcefully, mustering some sobriety, "no reason, really. Making conversation."


	56. Dark Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” (Crowley) (timetravelbypen)

Aziraphale was asleep inside the tent. The angel swore up, down and sideways that he didn't need sleep, but after a day like that, well, even angels had to let their wings droop now and again. 

Crowley waited until his breathing was even and slow, and then wrapped himself up in his abaya and slipped outside. 

The desert night was chilly and the wind sliced even a demon straight to the bone, but the night was brilliantly clear, and he didn't want to sleep. His body hummed with energy from the day gone by and the idea of lying down, for once, didn't appeal to him at all. He wanted to walk. He wanted to see things, all the things that most people and nearly all angels never got to see because they were too afraid to walk in dark places. 

That was one of the upsides to being a demon. Once you'd spent time in Hell, there wasn't much left in the dark to worry about.

It was nearing dawn before he got back to the tent he had somehow ending up sharing with the angel he was starting to think of, guiltily, as a friend. Aziraphale was standing outside the tent, fiddling idly with his hands and looking deeply relieved at the sight of him. 

"I was starting to get worried!"

"Thought I was getting up to mischief out in the desert, did you?"

"Er, no," said Aziraphale, with a shamefaced expression. "I thought, well... that something might have happened to you. It was very dark, after all. And you know... vicious animals... bandits..."

Crowley gazed at him and felt an ache in his chest that he couldn't put a name to for another three thousand years. "You worry too much, angel," he said, patting Aziraphale's shoulder. "I'm fine."


	57. God's Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have been my friend. That in itself is a tremendous thing.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (timetravelbypen)

For all that he loved his new garden (and it was love, of a sort, even if it wasn't a sort that Aziraphale could recognize on an intellectual level, although he could very much feel it), Crowley didn't like the rain. 

He shivered at the kitchen table and huddled over a mug of steaming hot tea, and tried to ignore the thunder and the rain lashing at the window over the sink. 

Aziraphale closed the cheery checked curtains briskly and settled a heavy blanket over Crowley's shoulders. "I'm sorry I can't do more," he murmured, running his fingers soothingly through Crowley's hair. 

"You're my friend," Crowley replied, his face so close to the mug that his voice sounded a little hollow. "That's not a small thing."

It never had been a small thing, not even on the wall of Eden, when Aziraphale had stretched out his wing like a blanket to shield a worried demon from the very first rain the Earth had ever seen. Not when they had stood close together as the waters began to gather upon the face of the world and grieved at the lives they saw and felt ending around them. 

And there was nothing they could do. Never anything they could do in the face of something so inevitable as God's tears (as some humans called the water that fell from the sky, sometimes as a blessing and sometimes as a curse) except press close together and try to protect one another as much as two supernatural beings could. 

Aziraphale settled his hands on Crowley's shoulders, and pressed a kiss into his hair. "This rain ought to do wonders for your tomatoes," he said, equal parts gently delighted and softly reassuring. 

He was saying, _It will be all right._

He was saying, _I'm here,_ and, _I will keep you safe._

Crowley leaned back into his angel's soft, steady presence. "I hope so," he said, trying to let go of a little of his six thousand years of tension. "They were looking a bit thirsty."


	58. Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tear off the mask. Your face is glorious.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (theironfrogg)

It was in Egypt that he encountered Crawly again. The flood was millennia in the past and the return of Prince Moses from his desert exile was still several years in the future (not that Aziraphale could foretell the future, but the schedule Head Office had provided him had been very detailed), and he found the demon in a tavern in Thebes, looking rather miserable. 

But the yellow eyes lit up at the sight of a familiar face. "Buy you a drink?"

"Oh, thanks awfully," said Aziraphale, before common sense could assert itself, and gladly drank the wine the serving girl brought him. "It's so dreadfully dry and sandy in this country at this time of year, it makes one so very thirsty."

"Nngh," Crawly agreed. "And it's about the get more dreadful."

Aziraphale frowned. "Oh?"

"Mhmm. I'm here to oversee a demonic plague of some sort. Something new from R&D. Beastly thing. Fevers, boils, pustulent sores..."

"You don't seem happy about it. I thought your lot went in for suffering."

"We do... as a rule." Crawly sighed and reached for the pitcher. "I don't think I'm quite cut out for the plague-spreader role, though."

"No... no, from what I've seen of you, on the whole, you don't seem to be a very good demon."

"Thank you – oh, wait, you didn't mean that as a compliment." Crawly's face fell. "I think I do a decent job."

"You do! I didn't meant to imply – I mean, you don't ever seem to _enjoy_..." Aziraphale made an awkward gesture. "Demon-ing."

"Oh, sometimes I do. When it's just winding humans up and letting them go, that's fun. They've got much better imaginations that Hell does – I take notes and send all sorts of memos downstairs with suggestions, and then I get commendations for them. And you can't tell me that taking credit for someone else's work isn't evil."

"It certainly is," said Aziraphale, wanting to humour him. 

"But indiscriminate mayhem and agony and death... well, I need to be in a proper mood for that. And it wouldn't involve kids."

Aziraphale drank his wine thoughtfully. "I suppose you could always... not spread the plague."

Crawly looked at him in surprise, and then grinned. "Trying to tempt me into good behavior, angel?"

"No, tempting is your job. I just make suggestions."

"And you're suggesting that I be completely insubordinate."

"Well... yes..."

Crawly leaned back precariously on his stool, smiling and eyeing Aziraphale with something that looked almost like fondness. "I'm fairly sure Hell would notice if this plague just didn't happen. And then nothing pleasant would happen to _me_. But thanks for the suggestion, all the same."

"You don't have to do this," said Aziraphale quietly. "You could—"

"I could what?" The smile vanished. "Stand up to my bosses, say 'This is wrong!' and end up being torn limb from limb for the next ten thousand years? No thanks. I'm not _that_ broken up about some humans dying. In ten years, there'll be five times as many that died, and history won't even remember there was a plague in the first place." 

"But you'll remember. And so will I."

Crawley leaned forward, thumping the stool softly on the clay floor of the tavern. "Listen to me, Aziraphale: I can't be better than I am for your sake. I'm a demon."

"Why would it have to be for my sake? Why couldn't it be for your own?"

"That sounds suspiciously like repentance. But I've got nothing to repent. No ways to mend. This is who and what I am – you won't find anything else underneath."

"I wonder, though," Aziraphale said, blithely ignoring Crawly's groan. "About who still lies under that demonic mask you wear."

"...Mask, what mask? This, uh... this is my face."

"It's a metaphor."

"And what's that when it's at home, some kind of insult?"

"No, it's a dramatic device – look, all I mean is – the angel you _were_ , the face and form that God gave you, must still be there." He was astonished at how hopeful he sounded, even though he knew that was he was saying was ridiculous. And yet... "You can tear off this mask, Crawly. Your face is still perfect."

Crawly looked at him steadily. "God took back the face they gave me, Aziraphale. What you see is all I've got left." He rose and tossed a few coins on the table. "Thanks for the company. I've got to run... plague starts at sunset in three days."

Aziraphale slumped on his stool and set to work finishing off the rest of the jug of wine. 

It wasn't until he could see the bottom that he realized what Crawly had done. 

Three days after their meeting, at sunset, the demon-driven plague struck Thebes. But it struck at a city entirely and mysteriously devoid of people. 

"My orders were to infect the _city_ of Thebes," explained Crawly blandly, when he next encountered Aziraphale, "not the _people_ of Thebes. S' not my fault if Head Office isn't keeping track of population movements."

“No, quite,” said Aziraphale happily.


	59. Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them and their response is ‘you’re safe with me’ – that’s intimacy.” (Aziraphale/Crowley) (theironfrogg)

They still met often, but almost never outside. It was unfortunate to lose the easy familiarity of St. James’s Park, to lose their bench and the swans that looked for them, but there was only so much glancing over one’s shoulder that either of them could handle. 

“It isn’t quite the same, is it?” A fork nudged bits of angel cake around the small plate, nervously reducing the cake to crumbs. 

“Not particularly. But it does feel a bit better, having walls about. Less likely to get snuck up on.” Long sensitive fingers fidgeted with the white café mug full of tea. “Better than waiting to get bashed over the head again and dragged off.”

“It’s not likely to happen again, though. Not in the same way.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s still waiting around for something to happen, even if it never comes.”

“Maybe.” 

The fork busily mashed cake crumbs against the plate, and then was laid down abruptly. “It’s still sad. This place is all right, but it doesn’t have the history, you know. Our history. We have to start all over here, right from the bottom, to make it ours. We’ve been visiting that park since it was founded.”

“Mm. It was a very different place, in those days.”

“Yes. Oh, yes…”

They lapsed into thoughts of the past, and between the two of them, their shared memories were warm, dark, and close. 

“Well, the bottom’s not so bad. I started from the bottom.”

“I started at the top, and have been working my way down ever since.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am I? Look at me now.” The fork was picked up again and twisted absently between shaking fingers. “There was a time when that park was one of the foulest places in London.”

“Morally foul, certainly.”

“It wasn’t considered ‘safe.’ _You_ know. I never thought it was anything to be afraid of. But then, there are so many things that humans have to be afraid of.”

“They’re right to be afraid.”

“Perhaps. But compared with us? Compared with the things we have to be afraid of?”

“It only really differs by degrees, I think.” A hand stretched across the small round table to grasp the other, bare fingers against only mostly bare ones. A ring of winged gold glinted between them. “Whatever you’re afraid of, you’re _safe_ with me.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“It’s not a promise. It’s just a fact.”


End file.
